THE 
BRIGHT  SHAWL 

JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 


NEW  YORK 
ALFRED 'A' KNOPF 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published.  October,  mi 

Second  Printing,  October,  19S£ 
Third  Printing,  October,  1922 


9et  up  and  electrotype*!  by  tlie  Vatt-Battou  Co.,  Blnghamton.  If.  T. 

Papa  furnished  by  W.  F.  Ether  ington  &  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

Printed  and  bound  by  the  Plimpton  Press,  Norwood,  MOM. 


MANUFACTURED     IN     THE     UNITED     STATES     OF    AMERICA 


For 

Hamilton  and  Phoebe  Gil ky son  junior 

in  their  fine  drawing-room 

at  Mont  Clare 


528634 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

be  so  literal!  Youth  was  a  time  for  generous 
transforming  passions,  for  heroics.  The  qual 
ities  of  absolute  justice  and  consistency  should 
come  only  with  increasing  age — the  inconsid 
erable  compensations  for  the  other  ability  to  be 
rapt  in  uncritical  enthusiasms. 

Charles  Abbott  ^fhedr  and  raised  his  head. 
He  was  sitting  in  the  formal  narrow  reception 
room  of  his  city  house.  The  street  outside  was 
narrow,  too;  it  ran  for  only  a  square,  an  old 
thoroughfare  with  old  brick  houses,  once  no  more 
than  a  service  alley  for  the  larger  dwellings  back 
of  which  it  ran.  Now,  perfectly  retaining  its 
quietude,  it  had  acquired  a  new  dignity  of  res 
idence:  because  of  its  favorable,  its  exclusive, 
situation,  it  was  occupied  by  young  married 
people  of  highly  desirable  connections.  Abbott, 
well  past  sixty  and  single,  was  the  only  person 
there  of  his  age  and  condition. 
/  October  was  advanced  and,  though  it  was 
hardly  past  four  in  the  afternoon,  the  golden 
sunlight  falling  the  length  of  the  street  was  al 
ready  darkling  with  the  faded  day.  A  warm 
glow  enveloped  the  brick  facades  and  the  window 
panes  of  aged,  faintly  iridescent  glass;  there  was 
a  remote  sound  of  automobile  htfrns,  the  illusive 
murmur  of  a  city  never,  at  its  loudest,  loud ;  and, 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

through  the  walls,  the  notes  of  a  piano,  charming 
and  melancholy.  / 

After  a  little  he  could  distinguish  the  air — it 
was  Liszt's  Spanish  Rhapsody.  The  accent  of 
its  measure,  the  jota,  was  at  once  perceptible  and 
immaterial;  and  overwhelmingly,  through  its 
magic  of  suggestion,  a  blinlfcg  vision  of  his  own 
youth — so  different  from  Howard's — swept  over 
Charles  Abbott.  It  was  exactly  as  though,  again 
twenty-three,  he  were  standing  in  the  incan 
descent  sunlight  of  Havana ;  in,  to  be  precise,  the 
Parque  Isabel.  This  happened  so  suddenly,  so 
surprisingly,  that  it  oppressed  his  heart;  he 
breathed  with  a  sharpness  which  resembled  a 
gasp;  the  actuality  around  him  was  blurred  as 
though  his  eyes  were  slightly  dazzled. 

The  playing  continued  intermittently,  while 
its  power  to  stir  him  grew  in  an  overwhelming 
volume.  He  had  had  no  idea  that  he  was  still 
capable  of  such  profound  feeling,  such  emo 
tion  spun,  apparently,  from  the  tunes  only  potent 
with  the  young.  He  was  confused — even,  alone, 
embarrassed — at  the  tightness  of  his  throat,  and 
made  a  decided  effort  to  regain  a  reasonable 
mind.  He  turned  again  to  the  consideration 
of  Howard  Gage,  of  his  lack  of  ideals;  and, 
[12] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

still  in  the  flood  of  the  re-created  past,  he  saw, 
in  the  difference  between  Howard  and  the  boy 
in  Havana,  what,  for  himself  anyhow,  was  the 
trouble  with  the  present. 

Yes,  his  premonition  had  been  right — the 
youth  of  today  were  without  the  high  and  ro 
mantic  causes  the  Rrvice  of  which  had  so 
brightly  colored  his  own  early  years.  Not 
patriotism  alone  but  love  had  suffered;  and 
friendship,  he  was  certain,  had  all  but  disap 
peared;  such  friendship  as  had  bound  him  to 
Andres  Escobar.  Andres !  Charles  Abbott  hadn't 
thought  of  him  consciously  for  months.  Now, 
with  the  refrain  of  the  piano,  the  jota,  running 
through  his  thoughts,  Andres  was  as  real  as  he 
had  been  forty  years  ago. 

It  was  forty  years  almost  to  the  month  since 
they  had  gone  to  the  public  ball,  the  danzon,  in 
the  Tacon  Theatre.  That,  however,  was  at  the 
close  of  the  period  which  had  recurred  to  him 
like  a  flare  in  the  dusk  of  the  past.  After  the 
danzon  the  blaze  of  his  sheer  fervency  had  been 
reduced,  cooled,  to  maturity.  But  not,  even  in 
the  peculiarly  brutal  circumstances  of  his  tran 
sition,  sharply;  only  now  Charles  Abbott  defi 
nitely  realized  that  he  had  left  in  Cuba,  lost  there, 

[13] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

the  illusions  which  were  synonymous  with  his 
young  intensity. 

After  that  nothing  much  had  absorbed  him, 
very  little  had  happened.  In  comparison  with 
the  spectacular  brilliancy  of  his  beginning,  the 
remainder  of  life  had  seemed  level  if  not  actually 
drab.  Certainly  the  land"  to  which  he  had  re 
turned  was  dull  against  the  vivid  south,  the 
tropics.  But  he  couldn't  go  back  to  Havana, 
he  had  felt,  even  after  the  Spanish  Government 
was  expelled,  any  more  than  he  could  find  in  the 
Plaza  de  Armas  his  own  earlier  self.  The  whole 
desirable  affair  had  been  one — the  figures  of 
his  loves  and  detestations,  the  paseos  and 
glorietas  and  parques  of  the  city,  now,  he  had 
heard,  so  changed,  formed  a  unity  destroyed  by 
the  missing  of  "any  single  element. 

He  wasn't,  though,  specially  considering  him 
self,  but  rather  the  sustaining  beliefs  that  so 
clearly  marked  the  divergence  between  Howard's 
day  and  his  own.  This  discovery,  he  felt,  was 
of  deep  importance,  it  explained  so  much  that 
was  apparently  inexplicable.  Charles  Abbott 
asserted  silently,  dogmatically,  that  a  failure  of 
spirit  had  occurred  .  .  .  there  was  no  longer  such 
supreme  honor  as  Andres  Escobar's.  The  dance 
measure  in  the  Spanish  Rhapsody  grew  louder 

[14] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

and  more  insistent,  and  through  it  he  heard  the 
castanets  of  La  Clavel,  he  saw  the  superb  flame 
of  her  body  in  the  brutal  magnificence  of  the 
fringed  manton  like  Andalusia  incarnate. 


He  had  a  vision  of  the  shawl  itself,  and,  once 
more,  seemed  to  feel  the  smooth  dragging  heavi 
ness  of  its  embroidery.  The  burning  square  of 
its  colors  unfolded  before  him,  the  incredible  ma 
gentas,  the  night  blues  and  oranges  and  emerald 
and  vermilion,  worked  into  broad  peonies  and 
roses  wreathed  in  leaves.  And  suddenly  he  felt 
again  that,  not  only  prefiguring  Spain,  it  was 
symbolical  of  the  youth,  the  time,  that  had  gone. 
Thus  the  past  appeared  to  him,  % wrapped  bright 
and  precious  in  the  shawl  of  memory. 

No  woman  that  Howard  Gage  might  dream  of 
could  have  worn  La  Clavel's  manton;  it  would 
have  consumed  her  like  a  breath  of  fire,  leaving 
a  white  ash  hardly  more  than  distinguishable 
from  the  present  living  actuality.  Women  cast 
up  a  prodigious  amount  of  smoke  now,  a  most 
noisy  crackling,  but  Charles  Abbott  doubted  the 
blaze  within  them.  Water  had  been  thrown  on 
it.  Their  grace,  too,  the  dancing  about  which 

[15] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

they  made  such  a  stir, — not  to  compare  it  with  La 
Clavel's  but  with  no  better  than  Pilar's — was 
hardly  more  than  a  rapid  clumsy  posturing. 
Where  was  the  young  man  now  who  could  dance 
for  two  hours  without  stopping  on  a  spot  scarcely 
bigger  than  the  rim  of  his  silk  hat  ? 

Where,  indeed,  was  the  silk  hat! 

Even  men's  clothes  had  suffered  in  the  com 
mon  decline:  black  satin  and  gold,  nicely  cut 
trousers,  the  propriety  of  pumps,  had  all  van 
ished.  Charles  Abbott  recalled  distinctly  the 
care  with  which  he  had  assembled  the  clothing 
to  be  taken  to  Cuba,  the  formal  dress  of  evening, 
with  a  plum-colored  cape,  and  informal  linens 
for  the  tropical  days.  The  shirt-maker  had 
filled  his  box  with  the  finest  procurable  cambrics 
and  tallest  stocks.  Trivialities,  yet  they  indi 
cated  what  had  once  been  breeding;  but  now, 
incredibly,  that  was  regarded  as  trivial. 

The  Spanish  Rhapsody  had  ceased,  and  the 
sun  was  all  but  withdrawn  from  the  street; 
twilight  was  gathering,  particularly  in  Charles 
Abbott's  reception  room.  The  gilded  eagle  of 
the  old  American  clock  on  the  over-mantel  seemed 
almost  to  flutter  its  carved  wings,  the  fragile  rose 
mahogany  spinet  held  what  light  there  was,  but 
the  pair  of  small  brocaded  sofas  had  lost  their 
[16] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

severe  definition.  Charles  Abbott's  emotion,  as 
well,  subsided,  its  place  taken  by  a  concentrated 
effort  to  put  together  the  details  of  a  scene  which 
had  assumed,  in  his  perplexity  about  Howard,  a 
present  significance. 

He  heard,  with  a  momentarily  diverted  atten 
tion,  the  closing  of  the  front  door  beyond, 
women's  voices  on  the  pavement  and  the  chang 
ing  gears  of  a  motor:  Mrs.  Vauxn  and  her 
daughter  were  going  out  early  for  dinner. 
They  lived  together — the  girl  had  married  into 
the  navy — and  it  was  the  former  who  played  the 
piano.  The  street,  after  their  departure,  was 
silent  again.  How  different  it  was  from  the 
clamorous  gaiety  of  Havana. 

Not  actual  sickness,  Charles  Abbott  proceeded, 
but  the  delicacy  of  his  lungs,  following  scarlet 
fever,  had  taken  him  south.  A  banking^  asso 
ciate  of  his  father's,  recommending  Cuba,  had, 
at  the  same  time,  pointedly  qualified  his  sugges 
tion  ;  and  this  secondary  consideration  had  deter 
mined  Charles  on  Havana.  The  banker  had 
added  that  Cuba  was  the  most  healthful  place 
he  knew  for  anyone  with  no  political  attach 
ments.  There  political  activity,  more  than  an  in 
discretion,  was  fatal.  What  did  he  mean? 
Charles  Abbott  had  asked;  and  the  other  had 
[17] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

replied    with    a    single    ominous    word,    Spain. 

There  was,  it  was  brought  out,  a  growing 
and  potent,  but  secretive,  spirit  of  rebellion 
against  the  Government,  to  which  Seville  was 
retaliating  with  the  utmost  open  violence.  This 
was  spread  not  so  much  through  the  people,  the 
country,  at  large,  as  it  was  concentrated  in  the 
cities,  in  Santiago  de  Cuba  and  Havana;  and 
there  it  was  practically  limited  to  the  younger 
members  of  aristocratic  families.  Every  week 
boys — they  were  no  more  for  all  their  sounding 
pronunciamientos — were  being  murdered  in  the 
fosses  of  Cabanas  fortress.  Women  of  the  great 
est  delicacy,  suspected  of  sympathy  with  nation 
alistic  ideals,  were  thrown  into  the  filthy  pens  of 
town  prostitutes.  Everywhere  a  limitless  sys 
tem  of  espionage  was  combating  the  gathering 
of  circles,  tertulias,  for  the  planning  of  a 
Cuba  liberated  from  a  bloody  and  intolerable 
tyranny. 

WTere  these  men,  Charles  pressed  his  query, 
really  as  young  as  himself?  Younger,  some  of 
them,  by  five  and  six  years.  And  they  were  shot 
by  a  file  of  soldiers'  muskets?  Eight  students 
at  the  university  had  been  executed  at 
once  for  a  disproved  charge  that  they  had 
scrawled  an  insulting  phrase  on  the  glass 

[18] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

door  of  the  tomb  of  a  Cuban  Volunteer.  At 
this  the  elder  Abbott  had  looked  so  dubious  that 
Charles  hastily  abandoned  his  questioning. 
Enough  of  that  sort  of  thing  had  been  shown ;  al 
ready  his  mother  was  unalterably  opposed  to 
Cuba;  and  there  he  intended  at  any  price  to  go. 
But  those  tragedies  and  reprisals,  the  champion 
of  his  determination  insisted,  were  limited,  as  he 
had  begun  by  saying,  to  the  politically  involved. 
No  more  engaging  or  safer  city  than  Havana  ex 
isted  for  the  delight  of  young  travelling  Amer 
icans  with  an  equal  amount  of  money  and  good 
sense.  He  had  proceeded  to  indicate  the  temper 
ate  pleasures  of  Havana;  but,  then,  Charles  Ab 
bott  had  no  ear  for  sensuous  enjoyment.  His 
mind  was  filled  by  the  other  vision  of  heroic 
youth  dying  for  the  ideal  of  liberty. 

He  had  never  before  given  Cuba,  under  Span 
ish  rule,  a  thought;  but  at  a  chance  sentence  it 
dominated  him  completely;  all  his  being  had 
been  tinder  for  the  spark  of  its  romantic 
spirit.  This,  naturally,  he  had  carefully  con 
cealed  from  his  parents,  for,  during  the  days  that 
immediately  followed,  Cuba  as  a  possibility  was 
continuously  argued.  Soon  his  father,  basing 
his  decision  on  Charles'  gravity  of  character, 
was  in  favor  of  the  change;  and  in  the  end  his 

[19] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

mother,  at  whose  prescience  he  wondered,  was 
overborne. 

Well,  he  was  for  Havana!  His  cabin  on  the 
Morro  Castle  was  secured,  that  notable  trunkful 
of  personal  effects  packed ;  and  his  father,  greatly 
to  Charles'  surprise,  outside  all  women's  knowl 
edge,  gave  him  a  small  derringer  with  a  handle 
of  mother-of-pearl.  He  was,  now,  the  elder  told 
him,  almost  a  man;  and,  while  it  was  inconceiv 
able  that  he  would  have  a  use  for  the  pistol,  he 
must  accustom  himself  to  such  responsibility. 
He  wouldn't  -need  it;  but  if  he  did,  there,  with  its 
greased  cartridges  in  their  short  ugly  chambers, 
it  was.  "Never  shoot  in  a  passion,"  the  excel 
lent  advice  went  on;  "only  a  cool  hand  is  steady, 
and  remember  that  it  hasn't  much  range."  It 
was  for  desperate  necessity  at  a  very  short  dis 
tance. 

With  the  derringer  lying  newly  in  his  grasp,  his 
eyes  steadily  on  his  father's  slightly  anxious  gaze, 
Charles  asseverated  that  he  would  faithfully  at 
tend  every  instruction.  At  the  identical  moment 
of  this  commitment  he  pictured  himself  firing 
into  the  braided  tunic  of  a  beastly  Spanish  of 
ficer  and  supporting  a  youthful  Cuban  patriot, 
dying  pallidly  of  wounds,  in  his  free  arm.  The 
Morro  Castle  hadn't  left  its  New  York  dock  be- 

[20] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

fore  he  had  determined  just  what  part  he  would 
take  in  the  liberation  of  Cuba — he'd  lead  a  hope 
less  demonstration  in  the  center  of  Havana,  at 
the  hour  when  the  city  was  its  brightest  and  the 
band  playing  most  gaily;  his  voice,  sharp  like  a 
shot,  so  soon  to  be  stilled  in  death,  would  stop 
the  insolence  of  music. 


This  was  not  a  tableau  of  self-glorification  or 
irresponsible  youth,  he  proceeded;  it  was  more 
significant  than  a  spirit  of  adventure.  His  de 
termination  rested  on  the  abstraction  of  liberty 
for  an  oppressed  people;  he  saw  Cuba  as  a  place 
which,  after  great  travail,  would  become  the  haunt 
of  perfect  peace.  That,  Charles  felt,  was  not 
only  a  possibility  but  inevitable ;  he  saw  the  forces 
of  life  drawn  up  in  such  a  manner — the  good  on 
one  side  facing  the  bad  on  the  other.  There  was 
no  mingling  of  the  ranks,  no  grey;  simply,  con 
veniently,  black  and  white.  And,  in  the  end,  the 
white  would  completely  triumph;  it  would  be 
victorious  for  the  reason  that  heaven  must  reign 
over  hell.  God  was  supreme. 

Charles  wasn't  at  all  religious,  he  came  of  a 
blood  which  delegated  to  its  women  the  rites  and 
[21] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

responsibilities  of  the  church;  but  there  was  no 
question  in  his  mind,  no  doubt,  of  the  Protes 
tant  theological  map;  augustness  lay  concretely 
behind  the  sky;  hell  was  no  mere  mediaeval  fan 
tasy.  He  might  ignore  this  in  daily  practice,  yet 
it  held  him  within  its  potent  if  invisible  barriers. 
Charles  Abbott  believed  it.  The  supremacy  of 
God,  suspended  above  the  wickedness  of  Spain, 
would  descend  and  crush  it. 

Ranged,  therefore,  squarely  on  the  side  of  the 
angels,  mentally  he  swept  forward  in  confidence, 
sustained  by  the  glitter  of  their  invincible  pan- 
ions.  The  spending  of  his  life,  he  thought,  was  a 
necessary  part  of  the  consummation;  somehow 
without  that  his  vision  lost  radiance.  A  great 
price  would  be  required,  but  the  result — eternal 
happiness  on  that  island  to  which  he  was  taking 
linen  suits  in  winter!  Charles  had  a  subcon 
scious  conception  of  the  heroic  doctrine  of  the  de 
struction  of  the  body  for  the  soul's  salvation. 

The  Morro  Castle,  entering  a  wind  like  the 
slashing  of  a  stupendous  dull  grey  sword,  slowly 
and  uncomfortably  steamed  along  her  course. 
Most  of  the  passengers  at  once  were  seasick,  and 
either  retired  or  collapsed  in  a  leaden  row  under 
the  lee  of  the  deck  cabins.  But  this  indisposi 
tion  didn't  touch  Charles,  and  it  pleased  his  sense 

[22] 


THE  BRIGHT  SHAWL 
of  dignity.  He  appeared,  erect  and  capable,  at 
breakfast,  and  through  the  mprning  promenaded 
the  unsteady  deck.  He  attended  the  gambling 
in  the  smoking  saloon,  and  listened  gravely 
to  the  fragmentary  hymns  attempted  on  Sun 
day. 

These  human  activities  were  all  definitely  out 
side  him;  charged  with  a  higher  purpose,  he 
watched  them  comprehendingly,  his  lips  bearing 
the  shadow  of  a  saddened  smile;  essentially  he 
was  alone,  isolated.  Or  at  least  he  was  at  the 
beginning  of  the  four  days'  journey — he  kept  col 
liding  with  the  rotund  figure  of  a  man  wrapped 
to  the  eyes  in  a  heavy  cloak  until,  finally,  from 
progressing  in  opposite  directions,  they  fell 
into  step  together.  To  Charles'  delight,  the 
other  was  a  Cuban,  Domingo  Escobar,  who  lived 
in  Havana,  on  the  Prado. 

Charles  Abbott  learned  this  from  the  flourish 
ing  card  given  in  return  for  his  own.  Escobar 
he  found  to  be  a  man  with  a  pleasant  and  consid 
erate  disposition;  indeed,  he  maintained  a  scru 
pulous  courtesy  toward  Charles  far  transcending 
any  he  would  have  had,  from  a  man  so  much 
older,  at  home.  Domingo  Escobar,  it  developed, 
had  a  grown  son,  Vincente,  twenty-eight  years 
old ;  a  boy  perhaps  Charles'  own  age — no,  Andres 
[23] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

would  be  two,  three,  years  younger;  and  Narcisa. 
The  latter,  his  daughter,  Escobar,  unashamed, 
described  as  a  budding  white  rose. 

Charles  wasn't  interested  in  that,  his  thoughts 
were  definitely  turned  from  girls,  however  flow- 
erlike;  but  he  was  engaged  by  Vincente  and  An 
dres.  He  asked  a  great  many  questions  about 
them,  all  tending  to  discover,  if  possible,  the  ac 
tivity  of  their  patriotism.  This,  though,  was  a 
subject  which  Domingo  Escobar  resolutely  ig 
nored. 

Once,  when  Charles  put  a  direct  query  with 
relation  to  Spain  in  Cuba,  the  older  man, 
abruptly  replying  at  a  tangent,  ignored  his  ques 
tion.  It  would  be  necessary  to  ask  Andres 
Escobar  himself.  That  he  would  have  an  op 
portunity  to  do  this  was  assured,  for  Andres' 
parent,  who  knew  the  Abbotts'  banking  friend 
intimately,  had  told  Charles  with  flattering  sin 
cerity  how  welcome  he  would  be  at  the  Escobar 
dwelling  on  the  Prado. 

The  Prado,  it  began  to  be  clear,  of  all  the 
possible  places  of  residence  in  Havana,  was  the 
best;  the  Escobars  went  to  Paris  when  they 
willed;  and,  altogether,  Charles  told  himself,  he 
had  made  a  very  fortunate  beginning.  He 
picked  up,  from  various  sources  on  the  steamer, 

[24] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

useful  tags  of  knowledge  about  his  destination: 
The  Inglaterra,  to  which  he  had  been  directed, 
was  a  capital  hotel,  but  outside  the  walls.  Still, 
the  Calle  del  Prado,  the  Paseo  there,  were  quite 
gay;  and  before  them  was  the  sweep  of  the 
Parque  Isabel,  where  the  band  played.  At  the 
Hotel  St.  Louis,  next  door,  many  of  the  Spanish 
officers  had  their  rooms,  but  at  the  hour  of  din 
ner  they  gathered  in  the  Cafe  Dominica.  The 
Noble  Havana  was  celebrated  for  its  camarones 
— shrimps,  Charles  learned — and  the  Tuileries, 
at  the  juncture  of  Consulado  and  San  Rafael 
Streets,  had  a  salon  upstairs  especially  for 
women.  Most  of  his  dinners,  however,  he  would 
get  at  the  Restaurant  Frangais,  excellently  kept 
by  Frangois  Gargon  on  Cuba  Street,  number 
seventy- two. 

There  he  would  encounter  the  majority  of 
his  young  fellow  countrymen  in  Havana;  the 
Cafe  El  Louvre  would  serve  for  sherbets  after 
the  theatre,  and  the  Aguila  de  Oro.  .  .  .  The 
Plaza  de  Toros,  of  course,  he  would  frequent:  it 
was  on  Belascoin  Street  near  the  sea.  The  after 
noon  fights  only  were  fashionable;  the  bulls 
killed  in  the  morning  were  no  more  than  toro 
del  aguadiente.  And  the  cockpit  was  at  the 
Valla  de  Gallo. 

[25] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

There  were  other  suggestions  as  well,  put 
mostly  in  the  form  of  ribald  inquiry;  but  toward 
them  Charles  Abbott  persisted  in  an  attitude  of 
uncommunicative  disdain.  His  mind,  his  whole 
determination,  had  been  singularly  purified;  he 
had  a  sensation  of  remoteness  from  the  flesh;  his 
purpose  killed  earthly  desire.  He  thought  of 
himself  now  as  dedicated  to  that:  Charles  re 
viewed  the  comfortable  amount  of  his  letter  of 
credit,  his  personal  qualifications,  the  derringer 
mounted  in  mother-of-pearl,  in  the  light  of  one 
end.  It  annoyed  him  that  he  couldn't,  at  once, 
plunge  into  this  with  Domingo  Escobar;  but, 
whenever  he  approached  that  ordinarily  respon 
sive  gentleman  with  anything  political,  he  grew 
morose  and  silent,  or  else,  more  maddening  still, 
deliberately  put  Charles'  interest  aside.  The 
derringer,  however,  brought  out  an  unexpected 
and  gratifying  stir. 

Escobar  had  stopped  in  Charles'  cabin,  and 
the  latter,  with  a  studied  air  of  the  casual,  dis 
played  the  weapon  on  his  berth.  "You  must 
throw  it  away,"  Escobar  exclaimed  dramati 
cally;  "at  once,  now,  through  the  porthole." 

"I  can't  do  that,"  Charles  explained;  "it  was 
a  gift  from  my  father;  besides,  I'm  old  enough 
for  such  things." 

[26] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

"A  gift  from  your  father,  perhaps,"  the  other 
echoed;  "but  did  he  tell  you,  I  wonder,  how  you 
were  going  to  get  it  into  Cuba?  Did  he  explain 
what  the  Spanish  officials  would  do  if  they  found 
you  with  a  pistol?  Dama  de  Caridad,  do  you 
suppose  Cuba  is  New  York!  The  best  you 
could  hope  for  would  be  deportation.  Into  the 
sea  with  it." 

But  this  Charles  Abbott  refused  to  do,  though 
he  would,  he  agreed,  conceal  it  beyond  the  in 
genuity  of  Spain ;  and  Escobar  left  him  in  a  mut 
tering  anger.  Charles  felt  decidedly  encouraged : 
a  palpable  degree  of  excitement,  of  tense  antici 
pation,  had  been  granted  him. 


Yet  his  first  actual  breath  of  the  tropics,  of 
Cuba,  was  very  different,  charged  and  sur 
charged  with  magical  peace:  the  steamer  was  en 
veloped  in  an  evening  of  ineffable  lovely  blue- 
ness.  The  sun  faded  from  the  world  of  water 
and  left  an  ultramarine  undulating  flood  with 
depths  of  clear  'black,  the  sky  was  a  tender  gauze 
of  color  which,  as  night  approached,  was  sewn 
with  a  glimmer  that  became  curiously  apparent, 
seemingly  nearby,  stars.  The  air  that  brushed 

[27] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Charles'  cheek  was  slow  and  warm;  its  warmth 
was  fuller,  heavier  with  potency,  than  any  summer 
he  had  known.  Accelerating  his  imagination  it 
dissipated  his  energies;  he  lounged  supine  in  his 
chair,  long  past  midnight,  lulled  by  the  slight 
rise  and  fall  of  the  sea,  gathered  up  benignly 
into  the  beauty  above  him/ 

Later  he  had  to  stir  himself  into  the  energy 
of  packing,  for  the  Morro  Castle  vwas  docking 
early  in  the  morning.  He  closed  his  bag 
thoughtfully,  the  derringer  on  a  shelf.  Escobar 
had  spoken  about  it,  warning  him,  again;  and 
it  was  apparent  that  no  obvious  place  of  conceal 
ment  would  be  sufficient.  At  last  he  hit  on  an 
excellent  expedient — he  would  suspend  it  inside 
the  leg  of  a  trouser.  He  fell  asleep,  still  satu 
rated  with  the  placid  blue  immensity  without,  and 
woke  sharply,  while  it  was  still  dark.  But  it  was 
past  four,  and  he  rose  and  dressed.  The  deck 
was  empty,  deserted,  and  the  light  in  the  pilot 
house  showed  a  solitary  intent  countenance 
under  a  glazed  visor.  There  was,  of  course,  no 
sign  of  Cuba. 

|  A  wind  freshened,  it  blew  steadily  with  no 
change  of  temperature,  like  none  of  the  winds 
with  which  he  was  familiar.  It  appeared  to 
blow  the  night  away,  astern.  The  caged  light 

[28] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

grew  dull,  there  were  rifts  in  the  darkness, 
gleams  over  the  tranquil  sea,  and  the  morning 
opened  like  a  flower  sparkling  in  dew.  The 
limitless  reach  of  the  water  flashed  in  silver 
planes ;  miniature  rainbows  cascaded  in  the  spray 
at  the  steamer's  bow;  a  flight  of  sailing  fish  skit 
tered  by  the  side.  Far  ahead  there  was  a  faint 
silhouette,  like  the  print  of  a  tenuous  green-grey 
cloud,  on  the  sea.  It  grew  darker,  bolder;  and 
Charles  Abbott  realized  that  it  was  an  island.  ' 

Cuba  came  rapidly  nearer;  he  could  see  now 
that  it  wasn't  pale;  its  foliage  was  heavy,  glossy, 
almost  sombre.  The  Morro  Castle  bore  to  the 
left,  but  he  was  unable  to  make  out  an  opening, 
a  possible  city, -on  the  coast.  The  water  regained 
its  intense  blue,  at  once  transparent,  clear,  and 
dyed  with  pigment.  /The  other  travellers  were*/ 
all  on  deck:  Charles  moved  toward  Domingo 
Escobar,  but  he  eluded  him.  Undoubtedly 
Escobar  had  the  conjunction  of  the  derringer 
and  the  Spanish  customs  in  mind.  A  general 
uneasiness  permeated  the  small  throng ;  they  con 
versed  with  a  forced  triviality,  or,  sunk  in 
thought,  said  nothing. 

Then,  with  the  sudden  drama  of  a  crash  of 
brass,  of  an  abruptly  lifting  curtain,  they  swung 
into  Havana  harbor.  Charles  was  simulta- 

[29] 


THE  BRIGHT  SHAWL 
neously  amazed  at  a  great  many  things — the  nar 
rowness  of  the  entrance,  the  crowded  ships  in 
what  was  no  more  than  a  rift  of  the  sea,  a  long 
pink  fortress  above  -him  at  the  left,  and  the  city, 
Havana  itself,  immediately  before  him.  His 
utmost  desire  was  satisfied  by  that  first  glimpse. 
Why,  he  cried  mentally,  hadn't  he  been  told  that 
it  was  a  city  of  white  marble?  That  was  the 
impression  it  gave  him — a  miraculous  whiteness, 
a  dream  city,  crowning  the  shining  blue  tide. 

Every  house  was  hung  with  balconies  on  long 
\    shuttered  windows,  and  everywhere  were  parks 
\  and  palms,  tall  palms  with  smooth  pewter-like 
^  trunks  and  short  palms  profusely  leaved.     Here, 
\  then,  white  and  green,  was  the  place  of  his  dedi 
cation;  he  was  a  little  dashed  at  its  size  and  vigor 
and  brilliancy. 

s  The  steamer  was  scarcely  moving  when  the 
customs  officials  came  on  board;  and,  as  the  drift 
ceased,  a  swarm  of  boats  like  scows  with  awnings 
aft  clustered  about  them.  Hotel  runners  clam 
bered  up  the  sides,  and  in  an  instant  there  was  a 
pandemonium  of  Spanish  and  disjointed  Eng 
lish.  A  man  whose  cap  bore  the  sign  Hotel 
Telegrafo  clutched  Charles  Abbott's  arm,  but 
he  sharply  drew  away,  repeating  the  single  word, 
"Inglaterra!"  The  porter  of  that  hotel  soon 

[30] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

discovered  him,  and,  with  a  fixed  reassuring 
smile,  got  together  all  the  baggage  for  his  guests. 

Charles,  instructed  by  Domingo  Escobar,  ig 
nored  the  demand  for  passports,  and  proceeded 
to  the  boat  indicated  as  the  Inglaterra's.  It  was 
piled  with  luggage,  practically  awash;  yet  the 
boatmen  urged  it  ashore,  to  the  custom  house,  in 
a  mad  racing  with  the  whole  churning  flotilla. 
The  rigor  of  the  landing  examination,  Charles 
thought  impatiently,  had  been  ridiculously  exag 
gerated;  but,  stepping  into  a  hack,  two  men  in 
finely  striped  linen,  carrying  canes  with  green 
tassels,  peremptorily  stopped  him.  Charles  was 
unable  to  grasp  the  intent  of  their  rapid  Spanish, 
when  one  ran  his  hands  dexterously  over  his 
body.  He  explored  the  pockets,  tapped  Charles' 
back,  and  then  drew  aside.  When,  at  last,  he  was 
seated  in  the  hack,  the  position  of  the  derringer 
was  awkward,  and  carefully  he  shifted  it. 

An  intimate  view  of  Havana  increased  rather 
than  diminished  its  evident  charms.  The  heat, 
Charles  found,  though  extreme,  was  less  oppres 
sive  than  the  dazzling  light;  the  sun  blazing  on 
white  walls,  on  walls  of  primrose  and  cobalt, 
in  the  wide  verdant  openings,  positively  blinded 
him.  He  passed  narrow  streets  over  which  awn 
ings  were  hung  from  house  to  house,  statues, 

[31] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

fountains,  a  broad  way  with  files  of  unfamiliar 
trees,  and  stopped  with  a  clatter  before  the  Ingla- 
terra. 

It  faced  on  a  broad  covered  pavement,  an 
arcade,  along  which,  farther  down,  were  com 
panies  of  small  iron  tables  and  chairs ;  and  it  was 
so  foreign  to  Charles,  so  fascinating,  that  he 
stood  lost  in  gazing.  A  hotel  servant  in  white, 
at  his  elbow,  recalled  the  necessity  of  immediate 
arrangements,  and  he  went  on  into  a  high  cool 
corridor  set  with  a  marble  flooring.  At  the  office 
he  exchanged  his  passport  for  a  solemn  printed 
warning  and  interminable  succession  of  direc 
tions;  and  then,  climbing  an  impressive  stair,  he 
was  ushered  into  a  room  where  the  ceiling  was  so 
far  above  him  that  once  more  he  was  overcome 
by  strangeness  and  surprise. 

He  unpacked  slowly,  with  a  gratifying  sense 
of  the  mature  significance  of  his  every  gesture; 
and,  in  the  stone  tub  hidden  by  a  curtain  in  a 
corner,  had  a  refreshing  bath.  There  was  a 
single  window  rising  from  the  tiled  floor  eight  or 
ten  feet,  and  he  opened  double  shutters,  discover 
ing  a  shallow  iron-railed  balcony.  Before  him 
was  a  squat  yellow  building  with  a  wide  compli 
cated  facade;  it  reached  back  for  a  square,  and 
Charles  decided  that  it  was  the  Tacon  Theatre. 

[32] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

On  the  left  was  the  Parque  de  Isabel,  with  its 
grass  plots  and  gravel  walks,  its  trees  and  iron 
settees,  gathered  about  the  statue  of  Isabel  II. 

Charles  Abbott's  confidence  left  him  little  by 
little;  what  had  seemed  so  easy  in  New  York,  so 
apparent,  was  uncertain  with  Havana  about  him. 
The  careless  insolence  of  the  inspectors  with  the 
green-tasseled  canes  at  once  filled  him  with  in 
dignation  and  depression.  How  was  he  to  begin 
his  mission?  Without  a  word  of  Spanish  he 
couldn't  even  make  it  known.  There  was 
Andres  Escobar  to  consider:  his  father  had  told 
Charles  that  he  knew  a  few  words  of  English. 
Meanwhile,  hungry,  he  went  down  to  the  eleven 
o'clock  breakfast. 


A  ceremonious  head  waiter  led  him  to  a  small 
table  by  a  long  window  on  the  Parque,  where, 
gazing  hastily  at  the  breakfasts  around  him,  he 
managed,  with  the  assistance  of  his  waiter's 
limited  English,  to  repeat  their  principal  fea 
tures.  These  were  fruit  and  salads,  coffee  fla 
vored  with  salt,  and  French  bread.  Clear  white 
curtains  swung  at  the  window  in  a  barely  percep 
tible  current  of  air,  and  he  had  glimpses  of  the 

[33] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

expanse  without,  now  veiled  and  now  intolerably 
brilliant.  His  dissatisfaction,  doubts,  vanished 
in  an  extraordinary  sense  of  well-being,  or  settled 
importance  and  elegance.  There  were  many 
people  in  the  dining-room,  it  was  filled  with  the 
unfamiliar  sound  of  Spanish;  the  men,,  dark, 
bearded  and  brilliant-eyed,  in  white  linens,  with 
their  excitable  hands,  specially  engaged  his  at 
tention,  for  it  was  to  them  he  was  addressed. 

The  women  he  glanced  over  with  a  detached 
and  indulgent  manner:  they  were,  on  the  whole, 
a  little  fatter  than  necessary;  but  their  voices 
were  soft  and  their  dress  and  jewels,  even  so 
early  in  the  day,  nicely  elaborate.  All  his  interest 
was  directed  to  the  Cubans  present;  other  travel 
lers,  like — or,  rather,  unlike — himself,  Amer 
icans,  French  and  English,  planning  in  their 
loud  several  tongues  the  day's  excursions,  or 
breakfasting  with  gazes  fastened  on  Hingray's 
English  and  Spanish  Conversations,  Charles 
carefully  ignored. 

He  felt,  because  of  the  depth  of  his  own  im 
plication,  his  passionate  self-commitment,  here, 
infinitely  superior  to  more  casual,  to  blinder, 
journey  ings.  He  disliked  the  English  arrogance, 
the  American  clothes,  and  the  suspicious  parsi 
mony  of  the  French.  Outside,  in  the  main  cor- 

[34] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

ridor  of  the  hotel,  he  paused  undecided;  practi 
cally  no  one,  he  saw,  in  the  Parque  Isabel,  was 
walking;  there  was  an  unending  broad  stream  of 
single  horse  victorias  for  hire;  but  he  couldn't 
ask  any  driver  he  saw  to  conduct  him  to  the 
heart  of  the  Cuban  party  of  liberty. 

The  strongest  of  all  his  recognitions  was  the 
fact  that  he  had  no  desire — but  a  marked  distaste 
— for  sightseeing;  he  didn't  want  to  be  identi 
fied,  in  the  eyes  of  Havana,  with  the  circulating 
throng  of  the  superficially  curious.  In  the  end 
he  strolled  away  from  the  Inglaterra,  to  the  left, 
and  discovered  the  Prado.  It  was  a  wide  avenue 
with  the  promenade  in  the  center  shaded  by  rows 
of  trees  with  small  burnished  leaves.  There,  he 
remembered,  was  where  the  Escobars  lived,  and 
he  wondered  which  of  the  imposing  dwellings, 
blue  or  white,  with  sweeping  pillars  and  carved 
balconies  and  great  iron-bound  doors,  was  theirs. 
He  passed  a  fencing  school  and  gymnasium;  a 
dilapidated  theatre  of  wood  pasted  with  old 
French  playbills;  fountains  with  lions'  heads; 
and  came  to  the  sea.  It  reached  in  an  idyllic 
and  unstirred  blue  away  to  the  flawless  horizon, 
with,  on  the  rocks  of  its  shore,  a  company  of 
parti-colored  bath-houses.  There  was  an  old 
fort,  a  gate — which,  he  could  see,  once  formed 

[35] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

part  of  the  city  wall — bearing  on  its  top  a  row 
of  rusted  and  antiquated  cannon.  Slopes  of 
earth  led  down  from  the  battery,  and  beyond  he 
entered  a  covered  stone  way  with  a  parapet  drop 
ping  to  the  tranquil  tide.  After  an  open  space, 
the  Maestranza,  he  came  to  a  pretty  walk;  it  was 
the  Paseo  de  Valdez,  with  trees,  stone  seats  and 
a  rippling  breeze. 

Charles  Abbott  indolently  examined  an  arch, 
fallen  into  disrepair,  erected,  its  tablet  informed 
him,  by  the  corps  of  Royal  Engineers.  He  sat  on 
a  bench,  saturated  by  the  hot  vivid  peace;  before 
him  reached  the  narrow  entrance  of  the  bay  with, 
on  the  farther  hand,  the  long  pink  wall  of  the 
Cabanas.  A  drift  of  military  music  came  to  him 
from  the  fortress.  ...  A  great  love  for  Havana 
stirred  in  his  heart;  already,  after  only  a  few 
hours,  he  was  familiar,  contented,  there.  It 
seemed  to  Charles  that  he  understood  its  spirit; 
the  beauty  of  palms  and  marble  was  what,  in  the 
bleak  north,  all  his  life  he  had  longed  for.  The 
constriction  of  his  breathing  had  vanished. 

The  necessity  for  an  immediate  and  violent 
action  had  lessened;  he  would,  when  the  time 
came,  act;  he  was  practically  unlimited  in  d$ys 
and  money.  Charles  decided,  however,  to  begin 
at  once  the  study  of  Spanish;  and  he'd  arrange 

[36] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

for  lessons  at  the  Fencing  School.  Both  of  those 
accomplishments  were  imperative  to  his  final  in 
tention.  He  lingered  on  the  beach  without  an  in 
clination  to  move — he  had  been  lower  physically 
than  he  realized.  The  heat  increased,  the  breeze 
and  band  stopped,  and  filially  he  rose  and  re 
turned  to  the  Inglaterra.  There  the  high  cool 
shadow  of  his  room  was  so  soothing  that  he  fell 
into  a  sound  slumber  and  was  waked  only  by  a 
pounding  at  his  door  past  the  middle  of  after 
noon. 

A  servant  tendered  him  a  card  that  bore  en 
graved  the  name  Andres  Escobar.  He  would  see 
Mr.  Escobar,  he  sent  word,  as  soon  as  he  could 
be  dressed.  And,  choosing  his  garb  in  a  min 
gling  of  haste  and  particular  care,  he  was  per 
meated  by  an  indefinable  excitement.^  Facing 
Andres,  he  had  a  sensation  of  his  own  clumsiness, 
his  inept  attitude  ;^br  the  other,  younger  than 
he  in  appearance,  was  faultless  in  bearing:  in 
immaculately  ironed  linen,  a  lavender  tie  and 
sprig  of  mimosa,  he  was  an  impressive  figure  of 
the  best  fashion.  But  Andres  Escobar  was  far 
more  than  that:  his  sensitive  delicately  modelled 
dark  face,  the  clear  brown  eyes  and  level  lips, 
were  stamped  with  a  superfine  personality.^^/ 

His  English,  as  his  father  had  said,  was  halt- 
[37] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

ing,  confined  to  the  merest  formal  phrases,  but 
his  tones  were  warm  with  hospitality. 

"It  was  polite  of  you  to  come  sio  soton,"  Gharles 
replied;  "and  your  father  was  splendid  to  me  on 
the  steamer." 

"How  do  you  like  Havana?"  Andres  asked. 

"I  love  it!"  Charles  Abbott  exclaimed,  in  a 
burst  of  enthusiasm,  but  of  which,  immediately 
after,  he  was  ashamed.  "I  was  thinking  this 
morning,"  he  continued  more  stiffly,  "when  I 
had  hardly  got  here,  how  much  at  home  I  felt. 
That's  funny,  too;  for  it's  entirely  different  from 
all  I  have  known." 

"You  like  it!"  Andres  Escobar  reflected  his 
unreserved  tone.  "That's  good;  I  am  very,  very 
glad.  You  must  come  to  our  house,  Papa  sends 
you  this."  He  smiled  delightfully. 

They  were  standing,  and  Charles  waved  toward 
the  dining-room.  "Suppose  we  go  in  there  and 
have  a  drink."  In  Havana  he  continually 
found  himself  in  situations  of  the  most  gratify 
ing  maturity — here  he  was,  in  the  dining-room  of 
the  Inglaterra  Hotel,  with  a  tall  rum  punch  be 
fore  him,  and  a  mature  looking  cigar.  He  was  a 
little  doubtful  about  the  latter,  its  length  was  for 
midable;  and  he  delayed  lighting  it  until  Andres 
had  partly  eclipsed  himself  in  smoke.  But,  to 

[38] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

his  private  satisfaction,  Charles  enjoyed  the  cigar 
completely. 

He  liked  his  companion  enormously,  noticing, 
as  they  sat  in  a  comfortable  silence,  fresh  details : 
Andres'  hair,  ink-black,  grew  in  a  peak  on  his 
forehead;  the  silk  case  which  held  his  cigars 
was  bound  in  gold ;  his  narrow  shoes  were  patent 
leather  with  high  heels.  But  what,  above  all 
else,  impressed  Charles,  was  his  evidently  worldly 
poise,  the  palpable  air  of  experience  that  clung 
to  him.  Andres  was  at  once  younger  and  much 
older  than  himself. 

"How  are  you  interested  ?"  Andres  asked, 
"in  .  .  .  girls?  I  know  some  very  nice  ones." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  Charles  Abbott  replied 
decidedly;  "the  only  thing  I  care  for  is  politics 
and  the  cause  of  justice  and  freedom." 


Andres  Escobar  gazed  swiftly  at  the  occupied 
tables  around  them;  not  far  away  there  was  a 
party  of  Spanish  officers  in  loose  short  tunics  and 
blue  trousers.  Then,  without  commenting  on 
Charles'  assertion,  he  drank  from  his  glass  of 
punch.  "Some  very  nice  girls,"  he  repeated. 
Charles  was  overwhelmed  with  chagrin  at  his  in- 

[39] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

discretion;  Andres  would  think  that  he  was  a 
babbling  idiot.  At  the  same  time  he  was 
slightly  impatient:  his  faith  in  the  dangers  of 
Havana  had  been  shaken  by  the  city's  aspect  of 
profound  placidity,  its  air  of  unalloyed  pleasure. 
"You  should  know  my  friends,"  Andres  went  on 
conversationally;  "Remigio  Florez,  they  are 
great  coffee  planters,  and  Jaime — Jaime  Quintara 
—and  Tirso  Labrador.  They  will  welcome  you, 
as  I." 

Charles  explained  his  intention  of  learning 
Spanish,  of  fencing;  and  the  other  promised  his 
unreserved  assistance.  He  would  have  a  teacher 
of  languages  sent  to  the  hotel  and  himself  take 
Charles  to  the  Fencing  School.  "Tomorrow," 
he  promised.  The  drinks  were  finished,  the 
cigars  consumed  in  long  ashes,  and  Anidres  Esco 
bar  rose  to  go.  As  they  walked  toward  the  Paseo 
the  Cuban  said,  "You  must  be  very  careful, 
liberty  is  a  dangerous  word;  it  is  discussed  only 
in  private;  in  our  tertulia  you  may  speak." 
He  held  out  a  straight  forward  palm.  "We 
shall  be  friends." 

Again  in  his  room,  Charles  dwelt  on  Andres, 
conscious  of  the  birth  of  a  great  liking,  the 
friendship  the  other  had  put  into  words.  He 
wanted  to  be  like  Andres,  as  slender  and  grace- 

[40] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

ful,  with  his  hair  in  a  peak  and  a  worldly,  con 
tained  manner.  Charles  was  thin,  rather  than 
slender,  more  awkward  than  not;  decidedly  fra 
gile  in  appearance.  And  his  experience  of  life 
had  been  less  than  nothing.  Yet  he  would  make 
up  for  this  lack  by  the  fervor  of  his  attachment 
to  the  cause  of  Cuba.  He  recalled  all  the  stories 
he  knew  of  foreign  soldiers  heroic  in  an  adopted 
cause;  that  was  an  even  more  ideal  form  of  serv 
ice  than  the  natural  attachment  to  a  land  of 
birth. 

He  moved  a  chair  out  on  his  balcony,  and 
sat  above  the  extended  irregular  roof  of  the 
Tacon  Theatre,  watching  the  dusk  flood  the 
white  marble  ways.  The  lengthening  shadows  of 
the  Parque  blurred,  joined  in  one;  the  fagades 
were  golden  and  then  dimly  violet;  the  Gate  of 
Montserrat  lost  its  boldness  of  outline.  Cries 
rose  from  the  streets,  "Cuidado!  Cuidado!"  and 
"Narranjas,  narranjas  dulces."  The  evening 
news  sheets  were  called  in  long  falling  inflections. 

What  surprised  him  was  that,  although  he  had 
more  than  an  ordinary  affection  for  his  home, 
his  father  and  mother,  now,  here,  they  were  of 
no  importance,  no  reality,  to  him.  He  never, 
except  by  an  objective  effort,  gave  the  north,  the 
past,  a  thought.  He  was  carried  above  personal 

[41] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

relationships  and  familiar  regard;  at  a  blow  his 
old  ties  had  been  severed;  the  new  held  him  in 
the  grip  of  their  infinite  possibilities.  All  the 
petty  things  of  self  were  obscured  in  the  same 
way  that  the  individual  aspects  of  the  city  below 
him  were  being  merged  into  one  dignity  of  tone. 

Yet,  at  the  same  time,  his  mood  had  a  charm 
ing  reality — the  suaveness  of  Andres  Escobar. 
His,  Charles  Abbott's,  would  be  a  select,  an  aris 
tocratic,  fate;  the  end,  when  it  overtook  him, 
would  find  him  in  beautiful  snowy  linens,  dig 
nified,  exclusive,  to  the  last.  His  would  be  no 
pot-house  brawling.  That  was  his  double 
necessity,  the  highest  form  of  good  in  circum 
stances  of  the  first  breeding.  One,  perhaps,  to 
his  aesthetic  fibre,  was  as  important  as  the  other. 
And,  dressing  for  dinner,  he  spoiled  three  shirts 
in  the  exact  right  fixing  of  his  studs. 

In  the  dining-room,  he  pressed  a  liberal  sum 
of  American  money  on  the  head  waiter,  and  was 
conducted  to  the  table  he  had  occupied  at  break 
fast.  Everyone,  practically,  except  some  un 
speakable  tourists,  was  in  formal  clothes;  and 
the  conversations,  the  sparkling  light,  were  like 
the  champagne  everywhere  evident.  Charles 
chose  a  Spanish  wine,  the  Marquis  de  Riscal; 
and  prolonged  his  sitting  over  coffee  and  a  cigar, 

[42] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

a  Partagas,  like  those  in  Andres'  silk  case.  He 
had  never  before  tasted  coffee  with  such  a  rich 
thick  savor,  its  fragrance  alone,  blending  with  the 
blue  smoke  of  his  cigar,  filled  him  with  pleasure. 

The  room  was  long,  tiled,  .and  had,  against 
the  far  wall,  a  great  mirror  which  held  in  reverse 
the  gay  sweep  of  the  tables,  the  heavily  powdered 
shoulders  of  women,  the  prismatic  flashes  of 
diamonds  and  men's  animated  faces.  The  re 
flections  were  almost  as  fascinating  as  the  reality, 
and  Charles  gazed  from  one  to  the  other. 

Drinking,  he  saw,  was  universal,  but  none  of 
the  Cubans  were  drunk;  and  for  that  reason  his 
attention  was  held  by  two  men  at  the  table  next 
to  his :  the  waiter  had  left  a  bottle  of  brandy,  and 
the  individual  facing  Charles,  with  a  sallow  face 
from  which  depended,  like  a  curtain,  a  square- 
cut  black  beard,  was  filling  and  refilling  his 
thimble-sized  glass.  He  was  watching,  with  a 
shifting  intentness  of  gaze,  all  who  entered;  and 
suddenly,  as  Charles'  eyes  were  on  him,  he  put 
down  his  half-lifted  brandy  and  a  hand  went 
under  the  fold  of  his  coat. 

Charles  turned,  involuntarily,  and  saw  a 
small  immaculate  Cuban  with  grey  hair  and  a 
ribband  in  his  buttonhole  advancing  among  the 
tables.  He  was  a  man  of  distinguished  appear- 

[43] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

ance,  important  it  was  evident,  for  a  marked 
number  of  people  bowed  as  he  passed.  When  he 
had  gone  on,  the  bearded  individual  rose,  sway 
ing  slightly,  and,  with  his  hand  still  in  his  coat 
rapidly  overtook  the  other. 

Charles  Abbott  had  an  impulse  to  cry  out; 
but,  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  helpless  dread,  im 
pending  disaster,  without  a  sound  or  power  of 
movement  he  followed  the  course  of  the  second 
figure.  The  two  were  now  at  the  end  of  the 
dining-room,  close  to  the  mirror,  when  the  man 
with  the  decoration  stopped  and  turned  sharply. 
There  was  the  sudden  stabbing  report  of  a  pistol, 
and,  immediately  following,  a  loud  splintering 
crash.  Charles  had  the  crazy  illusion  that  a 
man  who  had  been  shot  was  made  of  china,  and 
would  be  found  in  broken  bits  on  the  floor. 

There  was  an  instantaneous  hysterical  uproar, 
dominated  by  the  screams  of  women ;  in  the  panic 
which  rose  there  was  a  rush  for  the  entrance,  a 
swirl  of  tearing  satin  and  black  dress  coats. 
Then,  even  before  he  heard  the  concerted  de 
risive  amazement,  Charles  realized  that,  dazed 
by  the  brandy,  the  intended  murderer  had  fired 
at  the  reflection  of  his  mark  in  the  glass. 

What  an  utterly  ridiculous  error;  and  yet  his 
hands  were  wet  and  cold,  his  heart  pounding. 

[44] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Something  of  the  masking  gaiety,  the  appear 
ance  of  innocent  high  spirits,  was  stripped  from 
the  dining-room  of  the  Inglaterra,  from  Havana. 
There  was  an  imperative  need  for  Andres  Esco 
bar's  caution.  Charles'  equanimity  returned: 
with  a  steady  hand  he  poured  out  more  coffee. 
He  was  ashamed  of  his  emotion;  but,  by  heaven, 
that  was  the  first  of  such  violence  he  had  wit 
nessed;  he  knew  that  it  happened,  to  a  large 
degree  its  possibility  had  brought  him  to  Cuba; 
yet  directly  before  him,  in  a  square  beard  and 
a  decorating  ribband !  .  .  .  On  the  floor  were  the 
torn  painted  gauze  and  broken  ivory  sticks  of  a 
woman's  fan. 


The  echo  of  -that  futile  shot  folTBwed  Charles 
Abbott  to  the  Escobars',  where,  because  of  the 
often  repeated  names  of  its  principals,  'he  recog 
nized  tryt  the  affair  was  being  minutely  dis 
cussed/  The  room  in  which  they  sat  was  octag-V 
onal,  with  the  high  panels  of  its  walls  no  more 
than  frames  for  towering  glass  doors  set  in 
dark  wood;  above  were  serrated  openings,  East 
ern  in  form,  and  the  doors  were  supported  by 
paired  columns  of  glacial  white  marble.  It  was 
entered  through  a  long  corridor  of  pillars  capped 

[45] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

in  black  onyx  with  wicker  chairs,  a  tiling  laid  in 
arabesques  and  potted  palms;  and  opposite  was 
the  balcony  over  the  Prado.  A  chandelier  of 
crystal,  hanging  by  a  chain  from  the  remote  ceil 
ing,  with  a  frosted  sparkle  like  an  illuminated 
wedding  cake,  unaffected  by  prismatic  green  and 
red  flashes,  filled  the  interior  with  a  chilly  bright 
ness.  The  chairs  of  pale  gilt  set  in  a  circle, 
the  marble  pattern  of  the  floor,  the  dark  heads 
of  the  Escobars,  looked  as  though  they  were 
bathed  in  a  vitreous  fluid  preserving  them  in  a 
V  hard  pallor  forever. 

But  it  was  cool;  the  beginning  constant  night 
breeze  fluttered  the  window  curtains  and  swayed 
the  pennants  of  smoke  from  the  cigars.  Do 
mingo  Escobar  finished  what  was  evidently  a 
satirical  period  with  a  decisive  clearing  of  his 
throat — a-ha !  He  was  a  small  rotund  man  with 
a  gigantic  moustache  laid  without  a  brown  hair 
misplaced  over  a  mouth  kindly  and  petulant. 
His  wife,  Carmita,  obese  with  indulgent  in 
dolence,  her  placid  expression  faintly  acid, 
waved  a  little  hand,  like  a  blanched  almond,  in 
dicative  of  her  endless  surprise  at  the  clamor  of 
men.  Andres  was  silent,  immobile,  faultless  in 
a  severity  of  black  and  white. 

Charles  had  begun  to  admire  him  inordinately 
[46] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

above  everything,  Andres  possessed  a  simple 
warmness  of  heart,  a  generosity  of  emo 
tion,  together  with  a  fastidious  mind.  For 
tunate  combination.  And  his  person,  his  ges 
tures  and  flashing  speech,  his  brooding,  were  in 
vested  by  an  intangible  quality  of  romance; 
whatever  he  did  was  absorbing,  dramatic  and — 
and  fateful.  He  was  a  trifle  aloof,  in  spite  of 
his  impulsive  humanity,  a  thought  withdrawn  as 
though  by  a  shadow  that  might  have  been  but 
his  unfailing  dignity. 

Charles'  gaze  wandered  from  him  to  Narcisa, 
who,  Domingo  Escobar  had  said,  resembled  a 
flower  bud.  As  she  sat  in  pale  yellow  ruffles, 
with  hef~slim  hands  clasped  and  her  composed 
face  framed  in  a  wide  dense  stream  of  hair,  she 
was  decidedly  fetching.  Or,  rather,  she  gave  prom 
ise  of  charm ;  at  present,  she  was  too  young  to  en 
gage  him  in  any  considerable  degree.  Narcisa,  he 
concluded,  was  fourteen.  At  very  long  intervals 
she  looked  up  and  he  caught  a  lustrous,  mo 
mentary  interrogation  of  big  black  eyes.  A  very 
satisfactory  sister  for  Andres  Escobar  to  have; 
and,  wondering  at  the  absence  of  Vincente,  the  eld 
est  son,  Charles  asked  Andres  about  his  brother. 

A  marked  constraint  was  immediately  visible 
in  the  family  around  him.  Vincente,  he  was  in- 

[47] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

formed  abruptly,  was  out  of  Havana,  he  had 
had  to  go  to  Matanzas.  Later,  on  the  balcony 
over  the  Prado,  Andres  added  an  absorbing  de 
tail.  "Vincente,  we  think,  is  in  the  Party  of 
Liberation.  But  you  must  say  nothing.  I  do 
not  know,  Vincente  will  not  speak  ;•  but  mama  has 
noticed  the  gendarmes  in  front  of  the  house,  and 
when  she  drives." 

"I  should  like  to  talk  to  him,"  Charles  Abbott 
declared;  "you  must  arrange  it  for  me.  Look 
here,  there's  nobody  around,  I  might  as  well  tell 
you  that's  why  I  came  to  Cuba,  to  fight  the  cursed 
Spanish.  I'm — I'm  serious,  there's  nothing  ,1 
wouldn't  do;  and  if  I  have  to  be  killed,  why,  I 
am  ready  for  that.  It's  all  worked  out  in  my 
head,  except  some  petty  little  details.  Cuba 
ought  to  be  free;  this  oppression  is  horrible,  like 
a  spell  on  you — you're  all  afraid  to  more  than 
whisper — that  must  be  broken.  It  must!  I 
have  a  good  little  bit  of  money  and  I  can  get 
more.  You've  got  to  help  me." 

Andres  clasped  his  hand.  "That  is  wonder 
ful!"  His  lowered  exclamation  vibrated  with 
feeling.  "How  can  you  have  such  nobility! 
I  am  given  to  it,  and  Jaime  and  Remigio  Florez 
and  Tirso.  But  we  are  going  to  wait,  we  think 
that  is  better;  Spain  shall  pay  us  when  the  time 

[48] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

comes.  Those  students,  eight  of  them,  who  were 
shot,  were  well  known  to  us.  They  put  them 
against  a  wall  by  the  prison  and  fired.  You  could 
hear  it  clearly.  But,  when  we  are  ready,  the 
Spanish  Volunteers — "  hatred  closed  his  throat, 
drew  him  up  rigidly.  "Not  yet,"  he  insisted; 
"this  shall  be  different,  forever.  Perhaps  your 
country  will  help  us  then." 

Charles  was  increasingly  impatient;  he 
couldn't,  he  felt,  wait,  delay  his  gesture  for  free 
dom.  He  conceived  the  idea  that  he  might  kill 
the  Captain-General  of  Spain  in  Cuba,  shoot 
him  from  the  step  of  his  carriage  and  cry  that  it 
was  a  memorial  of  the  innocent  boys  he  had  mur 
dered.  Andres  dissuaded  him;  it  would,  he 
said,  only  make  the  conditions  of  living  more 
difficult,  harsh,  put  off  the  other,  the  final,  con 
summation. 

Below,  on  the  promenade,  the  rows  o.f  gas 
lamps  shone  wanly  through  the  close  leaves  of 
the  India  laurels;  there  was  a  ceaseless  saunter 
ing  throng  of  men;  then,  from  the  Plaza  de 
Armas,  there  was  the  hollow  rattat  of  drums,  of 
tattoo.  It  was  nine  o'clock.  The  night  was 
magnificent,  and  Charles  Abbott  was  choked  by 
his  emotions;  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  heart 
must  burst  with  its  expanding  desire  of  heroic 

[49] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

good.  He  had  left  the  earth  for  cloudy  glories, 
his  blood  turned  to  a  silver  essence  distilled  in 
ethereal  honor;  he  was  no  longer  a  body,  but  a 
vow,  a  purpose. 

One  thing,  in  a  surpassing  humility,  he  de 
cided,  and  turned  to  Andres.  "Very  well,  if  you 
think  the  other  is  best.  Listen  to  me:  I  swear 
never  to  leave  Cuba,  never  to  have  a  different 
thought  or  a  hope,  never  to  consider  myself  at  all, 
until  you  are  free." 

The  intent  face  of  Andres  Escobar,  dim  in  the 
gloom  of  the  balcony,  was  like  a  holy  seal  upon 
his  dedication.  A  clatter  of  hoofs  rose  from  be 
low — the  passage  of  a  squad  of  the  gendarmes 
on  grey  horses,  their  white  coats  a  chalky  glim 
mer  in  the  night.  Andres  and  Charles  watched 
them  until  they  vanished  toward  the  Parque 
Isabel;  then  Andres  swore,  softly. 

Again  in  his  room  at  the  Inglaterra  Charles 
speculated  about  the  complications  of  his  deter 
mination  to  stay  in  Cuba  until  it  was  liberated 
from  Spain.  That,  he  began  to  realize,  might 
require  years/^^QHestions  far  more  difficult  rose 
than  any  created  by  a  mere  immediate  sacrifice; 
the  attitude  of  his  father,  for  example;  he,  con 
ceivably,  would  try  to  force  him  home,  shut  off 
the  supply  of  money.  Meanwhile,  since  the  In- 

[50] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

glaterra  was  quite  expensive,  he  would  move  to  a 
less  pretentious  place.  And,  in  the  morning, 
Charles  installed  himself  at  the  Hotel  San  Felipe, 
kept  on  Ancha  del  Norte  Street,  near  the  bay,  by 
a  German  woman. 

His  room  was  on  the  top  floor,  on,  really,  a 
gallery  leading  to  the  open  roof  that  was  much 
frequented  after  dinner  in  a  cooling  air  which 
bore  the  restrained  masculine  chords  of  guitars. 
On  the  right  he  could  see  the  flares  of  Morro 
Castle,  and,  farther,  the  western  coast  lying  black 
on  the  sea.  He  had  his  room  there,  and  the  first 
breakfast,  but  his  formal  breakfast  and  dinner  he 
took  at  the  Restaurant  Frangais,  the  Aguila 
d'Oro,  or  the  Cafe  Dominica.  Late,  with  Andres 
and  their  circle,  their  tertulia,  Charles  would  idle 
at  the  El  Louvre  over  ice-cream  or  the  sherbets 
called  helados  in  Havana.  On  such  occasions 
they  talked  with  a  studied  audible  care  of  the 
most  frivolous  things;  while  Charles  cherished 
close  at  heart  the  sensation  of  their  dangerous 
secret  and  patient  wisdom,  the  assurance  that 
some  day  their  sacred  resolution  would  like 
lightning  shatter  their  pretence  of  docility. 


[51] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  dark  texture  of  their  minds, 
they  were,  at  times,  casually  happy,  intent,  to 
gether,  on  mundane  affairs.  They  were,  all 
five,  inseparable:  Jaime  Quintara,  the  eldest, 
was  even  more  of  an  exquisite  than  Andres;  he 
imported  his  lemon-colored  gloves  by  the  box 
from  Paris,  where  they  were  made  to  his  measure; 
and  in  them,  it  was  the  common  jest,  he  went  to 
bed.  He  was  almost  fat,  with  absurdly  small 
feet  and  a  perceptible  moustache.  In  addition, 
he  was  in  love  with  a  public  girl  who  lived  on 
Gloria  Street;  altogether  he  was  a  man  of  the 
world.  Remigio  Florez  was  absolutely  differ 
ent:  the  son  of  a  great  coffee  estate  in  Pinar  del 
Rio,  of  limitless  riches,  he  was  still  simple  and 
unaffected,  short,  with  a  round  cheerful  face  and 
innocent  lips.  Tirso  Labrador  was  tall  and 
heavy,  he  had  the  carriage  of  a  cavalry  officer, 
a  dragoon;  and,  slow  mentally,  his  chief  charac 
teristic  was  a  remarkable  steadfastness,  a  loyalty 
of  friendship,  admiration,  for  his  more  brilliant 
companions.  Tirso  Labrador  was  very  strong, 
and  it  was  his  boast,  when  they  were  alone,  that 
he  intended  to  choke  a  Spaniard  slowly  to  death 
with  his  naked  hands. 

Except,  however,  for  the  evening,  Charles  was 
rarely  idle;  upheld  by  his  fervor  he  studied 

[52] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Spanish  with  an  instructor  through  most  of  the 
morning,  and  rode  or  fenced  in  the  sala  in  the 
afternoon.  His  knowledge  of  Spanish,  supple 
mented  by  his  friends,  grew  rapidly;  he  had,  his 
teacher  declared,  a  very  special  aptitude  for  the 
language.  Domingo  Escobar  got  great  delight 
from  throwing  sentences,  queries,  at  him  with  in 
conceivable  rapidity,  and  in  pretending  that  every 
reply  Charles  attempted  was  senseless. 

Narcisa,  when  he  was  present,  contrived  to  sit 
with  her  gaze  on  her  hands  folded  in  her  ruffled 
lap  and  to  lift  her  widely  opened  eyes  for  breath 
less  interrogations.  She  was,  Charles  was  forced 
to  admit,  notably  pretty;  in  fact,  for  a  little  girl, 
she  was  a  beauty.  Now  if  she  had  been  thirty 
he  might  have  had  a  hopeless  passion  for  her, 
hopeless  not  because  she  failed  to  return  it,  but 
for  the  reason  that  he  was  a  man  without  a 
future — some  day,  they  both  knew,  he  would 
desert  love  for  stark  death. 

They  went,  Charles  and  Andres,  Tirso  and 
Remigio  and  Jaime,  to  the  Tacon  Theatre  for 
every  play,  where  they  occupied  a  box  in  the  first 
row,  the  primer  piso,  and  lounged,  between  the 
acts,  on  the  velvet  rail  with  their  high  silk  hats 
and  canes  and  boutonnieres.  At  times  there  were 
capital  troupes  of  players  and  dancers  from  An- 

[53] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

dalusia,  and  the  evening  was  well  spent.  They 
liked,  too,  the  zarzuelas,  the  operettas  of  one  act, 
largely  improvised  with  local  allusions.  But  they 
most  warmly  applauded  the  dancers. 

One,  La  Clavel,  from  Seville,  had  been  an 
nounced  by  posters  all  over  the  city;  and,  at  the 
moment  she  appeared  on  the  Tacon  stage,  Tirso 
had  his  heavy  arm  about  Remigio's  shoulders, 
Jaime's  gloved  hands  were  draped  over  his  cane, 
and  Charles  was  sitting  in  the  rear  of  the  box 
with  Andres.  The  orchestra  began  a  sharply 
accented  dance  measure — it  was  a  jota — and  a 
lithe  figure  in  a  manton  of  blazing  silks  and  a 
raked  black  felt  hat  made  a  sultry  bow. 

La  Clavel  was  indolent;  she  tapped  a  heel 
and  sounded  her  castanets  experimentally;  a 
reminiscent  smile  hovered  on  the  sombre  beauty 
of  her  face.  Suddenly  Charles'  attention  was 
wholly  captured  by  the  dancer;  he  leaned  for 
ward,  gazing  over  Remigio's  shoulder,  vaguely 
conscious  of  the  sound  of  guitars  and  suppressed 
drums,  the  insistent  ring  of  a  triangle.  She 
stamped  her  foot  now,  and  the  castanets  were 
sharp,  exasperated.  Then  slowly  she  began  to 
dance. 

/  She  wove  a  design  of  simple  grace  with  her 
hips  still  and  her  arms  lifted  and  swaying;  she 

[54] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

leaned  back,  her  eyes,  under  the  slanted  brim  of 
her  hat,  half  closed;  and  her  movements,  the 
rhythm,  grew  more  pronounced.  Through  the 
music  Charles  could  hear  the  stamp  of  her  heels, 
the  augmented  shrilling  of  the  castanets.  Her 
fire  increased;  there  were  great  scarlet  peonies 
on  her  shawl,  and  they  fluttered  as  though  they 
were  troubled  by  a  rising  wind/La  Clavel 
swept  in  a  widening  circle  on  her  hips,  and  her 
arms  were  now  extended  and  now  thrust  down 
rigidly  behind  her. 

She  dominated  the  cruel  colors  of  her  shawl 
with  a  savage  intensity  that  made  them  but  the 
expressions  of  her  feelings — the  scarlet  and  ma 
genta  and  burning  orange  and  blue  were  her 
visible  moods,  her  capriciousness  and  contempt 
and  variability  and  searing  passion.  Her  hat 
was  flung  across  the  stage,  and,  with  her  bcund 
hair  shaking  loose  from  its  high  shell  comb,  she 
swept  into  an  appalling  fury,  a  tormented  human 
flame,  of  ecstasyX  When  Charles  Abbott  felt  that 
he  could  support  it  no  longer,  suddenly  she  was, 
apparently,  frozen  in  the  immobility  of  a  stone; 
the  knotted  fringe  of  her  manton  hung  with 
out  a  quiver. 

An  uproar  of  applause  rose  from  the  the 
atre,  a  confusion  of  cries,  of  Ole!  Ole! 

[55] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Anda!  Anda!  Chiquella!  A  flight  of 
men's  hats  sailed  like  birds  around  her.  Jaime 
Quintara  pounded  his  cane  until  it  broke,  and, 
with  the  others,  Charles  shouted  his  unrestrained 
Spanish  approbation.  They  crowded  into  the 
front  of  the  box,  intent  on  every  movement,  every 
aspect,  of  the  dancer.  Afterwards,  at  the  Tuiler- 
ies,  Andres  expressed  their  concerted  feeling: 
"The  most  magnificent  woman  alive!" 
Jaime  went  across  the  cafe  to  speak  to  a  man 
who  had  a  connection  with-  the  Tacon  Theatre. 
He  returned  with  an  assortment  of  information — 
La  Clavel  was  staying  at  the  St.  Louis ;  she  would 
be  in  Havana  for  a  month ;  and  she  had  been  seen 
with  Captain  Ceaza  y  Santacilla,  of  the  regiment 
of  Isabel  II.  This  latter  fact  cast  them  into  a 
gloom;  and  Remigio  Florez  so  far  broke  the  ban 
of  sustained  caution  as  to  swear,  in  the  name  of 
the  Lady  of  Caridad,  at  Santacilla  and  his  kind. 
Nothing,  though,  could  reduce  their  enthu 
siasm  for  La  Clavel;  they  worshipped  her  sever 
ally  and  together,  discussing  to  the  last  shading 
her  every  characteristic.  She  was  young,  but  al 
ready  the  greatest  dancer  the  world  had — would 
ever  have,  Charles  added.  And  Andres  was  in 
structed  to  secure  the  box  for  her  every  appear 
ance  in  Havana;  they  must  learn,  they  decided, 

[56] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

if  she  were  to  dance  in  Santiago  de  Cuba,  in 
Mexico  City,  Rio  de  Janeiro,  Lima,  in  Cathay. 
They,  if  it  were  mortally  possible,  would  be 
present.  Meanwhile  none  of  them  was  to  take 
advantage  of  the  others  in  the  contingency  that 
she  should  miraculously  come  to  love  him. 
That  incredible  happiness  the  individual  must 
sacrifice  to  his  friendship,  to  his  oath  above  all 
other  oaths — Cuba.  The  country's  name  was  not 
spoken,  but  it  was  entirely  understood. 

They  were  seated  on  the  lower  floor,  by  the 
stairs  which  led  up  to  the  salon  for  women ;  and, 
sharply,  Charles  grasped  Andres'  arm.  Passing 
them  was  a  slender  woman  muffled  in  a  black 
silk  capote,  with  no  hat  to  cover  the  intricate 
mass  of  her  hair  piled  against  a  high  comb.  Be 
hind  her  strode  a  Spanish  officer  of  cavalry,  his 
burnished  scabbard  hooked  on  his  belt  against  its 
silver  chain;  short,  with  a  thick  sanguine  neck 
above  the  band  of  his  tunic,  he  had  morose  pale 
blue  eyes  and  the  red  hair  of  •compounded  but 
distinct  bloods. 

"La  Clavel,"  Charles  whispered;  "and  it  must 
be  that  filthy  captain,  Santacilla,  with  her." 


[57] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Seated  on  tHe  roof  of  the  Hotel  San  Felipe, 
the  night's  trade  wind  faintly  vibrant  with 
steel  strings,  Charles  Abbott  thought  at  length 
about  La  Clavel.  Two  weeks  had  passed  since 
she  first  danced  at  the  Tacon  Theatre;  she 
had  appeared  on  the  stage  three  times  afterward; 
and  she  was  a  great  success,  a  prodigious  favor 
ite,  in  Havana.  Charles  and  Andres,  Jaime  and 
Remigio  and  Tirso  Labrador,  had,  frankly,  be 
come  infatuated  with  her;  and  it  was  this  feeling 
which  Charles,  at  present,  was  examining.  If 
it  endangered  the  other,  his  dedication  to  an  or 
deal  of  right,  he  had  decided,  he  must  resolutely 
put  the  dancer  wholly  outside  his  consideration. 

This,  he  hoped,  would  not  be  necessary:  his 
feeling  for  La  Clavel  lay  in  the  realm  of  the  im 
personal.  It  was,  in  fact,  parallel  with  the  other 
supreme  cause.  La  Clavel  was  a  glittering  thing 
of  beauty,  the  perfection  of  all  that — in  a  happier 
world,  an  Elysium — life  and  romance  might  be. 
He  regarded  her  in  a  mood  of  decided  melancholy 
as  something  greatly  desirable  and  never  to  be 
grasped.  When  she  danced  his  every  sensibility 
was  intensified;  life,  for  the  moment,  was  im 
measurably  lovely,  flooded  with  lyrical  splendor, 
vivid  with  gorgeous  color  and  aching  happiness. 
Charles'  pleasure  in  every  circumstance  of  be- 

[58] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

ing  was  acutely  expanded — his  affection  for  An 
dres,  the  <:harm  of  Havana,  the  dignity  of  his  im 
pending  fate. 

Ordinarily  he  would  not  have  been  content 
with  this;  he  would  have  striven  to  turn  such 
abstractions  into  the  concrete  of  an  actual  experi 
ence.  But  now  an  unusual  wisdom  held  him  in 
tent  on  the  vision;  that,  he  recognized,  was  real; 
but  what  the  reality,  the  woman  herself,  was, 
who  could  be  sure?  No,  he  wasn't  in  love  with 
La  Clavel  in  the  accepted  sense  of  that  indefinite 
term;  he  was  the  slave  of  the  illusion,  the  emo 
tions,  she  spun;  he  adored  her  as  the  goddess  of 
his  youth  and  aspirations/ 

He  tried  to  explain  this,  in  halting  and  inade 
quate  Spanish,  to  his  tertulia;  and  because  of  his 
spirit  rather  than  his  words,  his  friends  under 
stood  him.  They  were  standing  by  the  marble 
statue  of  Ferdinand  VII  in  the  Plaza  de  Armas, 
waiting  for  the  ceremony  of  Retrata,  to  begin  in 
a  few  moments.  The  square  was  made  of  four  N 
gardens,  separated  by  formal  walks,  with  a  cir 
cular  glorieta;  and  the  gardens,  the  royal  palms 
and  banyans  and  flambeau  trees,  were  palely 
lighted  by  gas  lamps  which  showed,  too,  the  cir 
cling  procession  of  carriages  about  the  Plaza. 
The  square  itself  was  filled  with  sauntering  men, 

[59] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL     V.| 
a  shifting  pattern  of  white  linens,  broad  hats  and 
glimmering  cigars,  diversified  by  the  uniforms  of 
^Spain. 

At  eight  o'clock  a  sergeant's  guard  and  the 
band  marched  smartly  into  position  before  the 
Governor-General's  palace,  where  they  stood  at 
rest  until  the  drums  of  the  barracks  announced 
retreat.  Then,  at  attention,  the  gun  of  El  Morro 
sounded,  and  the  band  swept  into  the  strains  of 
Philemon  et  Baucis. 

Jaime  Quintara  smiled  sceptically  at  Charles' 
periods:  Platonic  sentiments  might  satisfy  Ab 
bott,  he  declared,  but  for  himself.  ...  At  this, 
Remigio  insisted  on  their  moving  out  to  inspect 
the  carriages.  They  were,  for  the  most  part, 
quitrins,  drawn  with  two  horses,  one  outside  the 
shafts  ridden  by  a  calesero  in  crimson  velvet 
laced  with  gold  and  a  glazed  hat.  The  quitrins 
had  two  wheels,  a  leather  hood  strapped  back, 
and  held  three  passengers  by  means  of  a  small 
additional  seat,  called,  Andres  explained,  la 
nifia  bonita,  where  the  prettiest  woman  was  in 
variably  placed.  None  of  the  women  wore  hats, 
but  they  were  nearly  all  veiled,  and  the  carriages 
were  burdened  with  seductive  figures  in  wide 
dresses  of  perfumed  white  waving  slow  fans. 

There   was,   however,   little   conversation  be- 
[60] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

tween  the  men  on  foot  and  the  women  carefully 
cultivating  expressions  of  remote  unconcern. 
Rarely,  if  she  were  accompanied  by  a  masculine 
member  of  her  family,  a  woman  came  to  earth 
for  a  short  stroll  in  the  gardens.  Charles  was* 
absolutely  inattentive  to  them,  but  his  compan 
ions,  particularly  Tirso  and  Jaime,  noted  and, 
with  dismaying  freedom,  commented  on  every 
feminine  detail  that  struck  their  fancy.  It  was 
Tirso  who  excitedly  called  their  attention  to  one 
of  the  new  volantas  in  which  sat  La  Clavel. 
Ceaza  y  Santacilla  was  not  with  her;  the  place  at 
her  side  was  occupied  by  the  man  to  whom  Jaime 
had  spoken  about  the  dancer  in  the  Tuileries. 
Quintara,  capturing  his  attention,  spoke  in  his 
profoundest  manner.  There  was  a  halt  in  the 
movement  of  carriages,  and  La  Clavel  was  di 
rectly  before  them. 

She  wore  the  high  comb  and  a  mantilla  of 
black  lace  falling  in  scalloped  folds  around  the 
vivid  flower  of  her  face — her  beauty,  at  least  to 
Charles,  was  so  extraordinary,  her  dark  loveli 
ness  was  so  flaming,  that  the  scarlet  camellia  in 
her  hair  seemed  wan.  They  were,  all  four,  pre 
sented  to  the  dancer;  and  four  extreme  bows,  four 
fervid  and  sonorous  acknowledgments,  rose  to 
the  grace,  the  divinity,  above.  It  seemed  to 

[61] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Charles  that,  perhaps  because  he  was  an  Ameri 
can,  La  Clavel  noticed  him  more  than  the  others: 
certainly  she  smiled  at  him  and  the  brilliancy  of 
her  gaze  was  veiled,  made  enigmatic,  by  the  low 
ering  of  her  sweeping  eyelashes. 

The  checked  restlessness  of  the  horses  was 
again  released  in  a  deliberate  progress,  but,  as 
La  Clavel  was  carried  on,  the  man  with  her 
added  that,  after  Retreta,  they  would  stop  at  the 
El  Louvre  for  an  ice  cream,  a  mantecado. 
Remigio  Florez  drew  in  a  deep  breath  which  he 
allowed  to  escape  in  the  form  of  a  sigh;  Jaime 
smoothed  the  wrists  of  his  bright  yellow  gloves; 
Tirso  Labrador  settled  his  guardsman's  shoulders 
into  his  coat.  "She  won't  get  out  of  the  volanta," 
Charles  said  thoughtfully;  "and  someone  will 
have  to  bring  out  her  refresco.  We'd  better 
get  there  early  and  stand  at  the  door." 

"No  hurry,"  the  suave  Jaime  put  in;  no  one 
will  leave  here  until  after  tattoo." 

At  nine  o'clock  the  drums  and  bugles  sounded 
from  various  parts  of  the  city.  There  was  one 
more  tune  played  directly  under  the  palace  win 
dows,  after  which  the  band  and  its  guards  left 
briskly  to  the  measure  of  a  quickstep.  Charles 
led  the  way  through  the  crowd  to  the  Prado  and 
the  Parque  Isabel.  A  number  of  carriages  were 

[62] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

there  before  them,  the  occupants  mostly  eating 
ices,  and  the  cafe  was  being  rapidly  filled. 
Waiting  keen-eyed  at  the  entrance,  they  saw  the 
volante  with  La  Clavel  before  it  drew  up,  and  the 
calesero  had  scarcely  dismounted  from  his  horse 
when  the  dancer  was  offered  her  choice  of  the 
available  sweets.  She  preferred,  rather  than  an 
ice,  an  orchata,  and  sipped  it  slowly  with  an  air 
of  complete  enjoyment.  Her  every  movement, 
Charles  Abbott  saw,  the  turn  df  the  hand  holding 
the  glass,  her  chin  and  throat  against  the  black 
film  of  lace,  her  slender  body's  poise,  was  utterly 
and  strongly  graceful:  it  was,  more  than  any 
other  quality,  the  vigor  of  her  beauty  that  im 
pressed  him.  It  seemed  as  though  she  must  be 
superbly  young,  and  dance  magnificently,  for 
ever. 

As  Charles  was  considering  this  he  was  un 
ceremoniously  thrust  aside  for  the  passage  of 
Captain  Santacilla  with  another  cavalry  officer 
whose  cinnamon  colored  face  was  stamped  with 
sultry  ill-humor.  Santacilla  addressed^  the  dan 
cer  aggressively  with  the  query  of  why  she  mis 
spent  her  evening  with  the  cursed  Cuban  negroes. 


La   Clavel   made   no   reply,   but   tended   her 
[63] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

empty  glass  to  Andres;  then  she  glanced  indiffer 
ently  at  the  captains.  "Their  manners,"  she 
said,  "are  very  pretty;  and  as  for  the  negro — " 
she  shrugged  her  delectable  shoulders. 

"My  blood  is  as  pure,  as  Castilian,  as  your 
own,"  Tirso  Labrador  began  hotly;  but  Remigio 
stilled  him  with  a  hand  on  his  arm.  In  an  un- 
colored  voice  he  begged  the  dancer  to  excuse 
them;  and,  sweeping  off  their  hats,  they  were 
leaving  when  Santacilla's  companion  stepped 
forward  in  a  flash  of  ungoverned  anger  like  an 
exposed  knife: 

"I've  noticed  you  before,"  he  addressed  Tirso, 
"hanging  and  gabbling  around  the  cafes  and 
theatres,  and  it's  my  opinion  you  are  an  insur 
rectionist.  If  the  truth  were  known,  I  dare  say, 
it  would  be  found  you  are  a  friend  to  Cespedes. 
Anyhow,  I'm  tired  of  looking  at  you;  if  you  are 
not  more  retiring,  you  will  find  yourself  in  the 
Cabanas." 

"Good  evening,"  Remigio  repeated  in  an  even 
tone.  With  his  hand  still  on  Tirso's  arm  he 
tried  to  force  him  into  the  cafe;  but  the  other, 
dark  with  passion,  broke  away. 

"You  have  dishonored  my  father  and  the  name 
of  a  heroic  patriot,"  he  said  to  the  officer  of  cav 
alry.  "In  this  I  am  alone."  With  a  suspicious 

[64] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

quickness  he  leaned  forward  and  his  big  hands 
shut  about  the  Spaniard's  throat. 

Charles,  with  a  suppressed  exclamation,  re 
called  Tirso's  determination  to  choke  one  of  the 
enemies  of  Cuba.  The  man  in  the  gripping  fin 
gers  stiffened  and  then,  grotesquely,  lost  his  as 
pect  of  a  human  form ;  suddenly  he  was  no  more 
than  a  thing  of  limp  flesh  and  gay  fabrics.  In 
stantly  an  uproar,  a  surging  passionate  excite 
ment  grew,  at  the  heart  of  which  Tirso  Labrador 
was  curiously  still.  Heaving  bodies,  at  once 
closing  in  and  prudently  scattering,  hid  from 
Charles  his  friend.  There  was  an  onrush  of 
gendarmes,  harsh  exclamations  and  oaths;  then, 
at  the  flash  of  steel,  a  short  agonized  cry — Tirso's 
voice  at  once  hoarse  and  inhuman  with  death. 

Charles  Abbott,  hurrying  away  at  Andres'  ur 
gent  insistence,  caught  a  final  glimpse  of  a  big 
young  body  sunk  on  the  flagging  of  the  Paseo ;  he 
saw  a  leaden  face  and  a  bubbling  tide  of  blood. 
Beyond  the  Montserrat  gate  they  halted,  and  he 
was  shocked  to  hear  Remigio  Florez  curse  Tirso 
as  brutally  as  any  Spaniard.  Andres,  white  and 
trembling,  agreed.  "Here  is  what  I  warned  you 
of,"  he  turned  to  Charles;  "it  is  fatal  to  lose 
your  temper.  You  think  that  what  Tirso  did 
ends  with  him  in  purgatory  ...  ha!  Perhaps 

[65] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

he  is  best  out  of  it  among  us  all.  It  might  be 
better  for  you  to  go  back  to  America  tomorrow 
and  forget  about  Cuba." 

"Yes,"  Remigio  added,  "probably  we  are  all 
ruined;  and  certainly  the  police  spies  will  be 
waiting  for  us  at  home." 

"It  would  have  been  better  if  we  had  dissi 
pated  more,"  Jaime  added:  "we  have  been  en 
tirely  too  high-minded  anc  unnatural.  Young 
men  meet  together  only  to  conspire  or  find  love 
— the  Spaniards  know  that — and  we  were 
fools." 

"We  haven't  been  suspected  of  anything," 
Andres  pointed  out;  "and  it  may  be  said  that 
Tirso  was  killed  defending  his  name.  No,  the 
trouble  is  to  come;  and  it  wasn't  our  fault.  We 
must  see  less  of  each  other,  at  least  in  public,  and 
be  quite  overcome  about  Tirso;  that  is  another 
account  I  charge  to  Spain:  I  knew  him  when  I 
was  a  child  ...  in  the  Vuelta  Arriba — "  Andres 
Escobar  began  to  cry  wholly  and  unaffectedly; 
he  leaned  against  an  angle  of  the  gate,  his  head 
in  an  arm,  and  prolonged  sobs  shook  his  body. 
Tears  were  silently  streaming  over  Jaime's  face, 
but  Charles  Abbott's  eyes  were  dry.  He  was  filled 
by  an  ecstasy  of  horror  and  detestation  at  the 
brutal  murder  of  Tirso.  Fear  closed  his  throat 

[66] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

and  pinched  his  heart  with  icy  fingers;  but  he 
ignored,  rose  above,  himself,  in  a  tremendous  ac 
cession  of  his  determination  to  drive  injustice — 
if  not  yet  from  the  world — from  Cuba. 

How  little,  he  thought,  anyone  knew  him  who 
advised  a  return  to  America.  Before  the  cold 
violent  fact  of  death  a  great  part  of  his  early 
melodramatic  spirit  evaporated;  the  last  possible 
trace  of  any  self-glorification  left  him,  the  linger 
ing  mock-heroics  of  boyhood  were  gone.  His 
emotion,  now,  was  almost  exultant;  like  a  blaze 
of  insuperable  white  light  it  drowned  all  the  in 
dividual  colors  of  his  personality;  it  appeared  to 
him  almost  that  he  had  left  the  earth,  that  he  was 
above  other  men. 

More  than  anything,  he  continued,  he  would  re 
quire  wisdom,  the  wisdom  of  patience,  maturity; 
Tirso  had  been  completely  wasted.  He  was 
seated,  again,  on  the  roof  of  his  hotel,  and  again 
it  was  night:  the  guitars  were  like  a  distant 
sounding  of  events  evolved  in  harmonies,  and 
there  was  the  gleam  of  moonlight  on  the  sea,  a 
trace  of  the  moon  and  the  scent  of  mignonette 
trees. 

He  was,  he  felt,  very  old,  grave,  in  deport 
ment;  this  detachment  from  living  must  be  the 
mark  of  age.  Charles  had  always  been  a  little 

[67] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

removed  from  activity  by  sickness;  and  now  his 
almost  solitary,  dreaming  habit  of  existence  had 
deepened  in  him.  He  thought,  from  time  to  time, 
of  other  periods  than  his  own,  of  ages  when  such 
service  as  his  had  been,  for  gentlemen,  the  com 
monplace  of  living:  he  saw,  in  imagination,  be 
fore  the  altar  of  a  little  chapel,  under  the  glimmer 
of  tall  candles,  a  boyish  figure  kneeling  in  armor 
throughout  the  night.  At  morning,  with  a  faint 
clashing  of  steel,  the  young  knight  under  a  vow 
rode  into  black  forests  of  enchanted  beasts  and 
men  and  impure  magic,  from  which  he  delivered 
the  innocent  and  the  pure  in  heart. 

Charles  Abbott  recalled  the  burning  of  the 
Protestant  Cranmer,  and,  as  well,  the  execution 
of  John  Felton  for  posting  the  Papal  bull  against 
the  Queen  on  the  door  of  London  House.  They 
too,  like  the  knights  of  Arthurian  legend,  had 
conquered  the  flesh  for  an  ideal.  He  was  carried 
in  spirit  into  a  whole  world  of  transcendent 
courage,  into  a  company  who  scorned  ease  and 
safety  in  the  preservation  of  an  integrity,  a  devo 
tion,  above  self.  This  gave  him  a  release,  the 
sense  that  his  body  was  immaterial,  that  filled 
him  with  a  calm  serious  fervor. 

He  was  conscious,  through  this,  of  the  cease 
less  playing  of  the  guitars,  strains  of  jotas  and 

[68] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

malaguenas,  laden  with  the  seductiveness,  the 
fascination,  of  sensuous  warm  life.  It  was,  in 
its  persistence,  mocking;  and  finally  it  grew  into 
a  bitter  undertone  to  the  elevation  of  his  thought : 
he  wanted,  like  Savonarola,  to  bring  to  an  end 
the  depravity  of  the  city;  he  wanted  to  cleanse 
Havana  of  everything  but  the  blanched  heavenly 
ardor  of  his  own  dedication.  The  jotas  contin 
ued  and  the  scent  of  mignonette  increased.  The 
moon,  slipping  over  the  sea,  shone  with  a  vague 
brightness  on  the  leaves  of  the  laurels  below,  on 
the  whiteness  of  marble  walks,  and  in  the  liquid 
gleam  of  fountains.  A  woman  laughed  with  a 
note  of  uncertainty  and  passion.  ...  It  was  all 
infinitely  removed  from  him,  not  of  the  slightest 
moment.  What  rose,  dwelt,  in  Charles  was  a 
breath  of  eternity,  of  infinitude ;  he  was  lost  in  a 
vision  of  good  beyond  seasons,  changeless,  and 
for  all  men  whomsoever.  It  must  come,  he  told 
himself  so  tensely  that  he  was  certain  he  had  cried 
his  conviction  aloud.  The  music  sustained  its 
burden  of  earthly  desire  to  which  the  harsh  whis 
pering  rustle  of  the  palm  fronds  added  a  sound 
like  a  scoffing  laughter. 


69 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

At  the  Plaza  de  Toros,  the  following  Sunday 
afternoon,  Charles  saw  La  Clavel ;  she  was  seated 
on  an  upper  tier  near  the  stand  of  the  musicians, 
over  the  entrance  for  the  bulls;  and,  in  an  au 
dience  composed  almost  entirely  of  men,  she  was 
brilliantly  conspicuous  in  a  flaming  green  man- 
ton  embroidered  in  white  petals;  her  mantilla 
was  white,  and  Charles  could  distinguish  the 
crimson  blot  of  the  flower  by  her  cheek.  ^The 
brass  horns  and  drums  of  the  band  were  making 
a  rasping  uproar,  and  the  crowded  wooden  am 
phitheatre  was  tense  with  excitement.  /Andres 
Escobar,  beside  Charles,  was  being  gradually 
won  from  a  settled  melancholy;  and,  in  an  inter 
ested  voice,  he  spoke  to  Charles  about  the  espada, 
Jose  Ponce,  who  had  not  yet  killed  a  bull  in 
Cuba,  but  who  was  a  great  hero  of  the  ring  in 
Spain  and  South  America. 

"There  is  La  Clavel,"  Charles  said  by  way  of 
reply;  "she  is  with  Captain  Santacilla,  and  I 
think,  but  I  can't  be  sure,  the  officer  Tirso  tried 
to  choke  to  death.  What  is  his  name — de  Vaca, 
Caspar  Arco  de  Vaca." 

"Even  that,"  Andres  answered,  "wasn't  accom 
plished.  La  Clavel's  engagement  in  Havana  is 
over;  I  suppose  it  will  be  Buenos  Aires  next. 
Do  you  remember  how  we  swore  to  follow  her  all 

[70] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

over  the  world,  and  how  Tirso  wanted  to  drag 
her  volanta  in  place  of  the  horses?  At  heart,  it's 
no  doubt,  she  is  Spanish,  and  yet.  .  .  .  There's 
the  procession." 

The  key  bearer,  splendid  in  velvet  and  gold 
and  silver,  with  a  short  cloak,  rode  into  the  ring 
followed  by  the  picadores  on  broken-down  horses : 
their  legs  were  swathed  in  leather  and  their 
jackets,  of  ruby  and  orange  and  emerald,  were 
set  with  expensive  lace.  They  carried  pikes  with 
iron  points ;  while  the  banderilleros,  on  foot,  with 
hair  long  and  knotted  like  a  woman's,  hung  their 
bright  cloaks  over  an  arm  and  bore  the  darts  gay 
with  paper  rosettes. 

The  espada,  Jose  Ponce,  was  greeted  with  a 
savage  roar  of  approbation;  he  was  dressed  in 
green  velvet,  his  zouave  jacket  heavy  with  gold 
bullion;  and  his  lithe  slender  dark  grace  recalled 
to  Charles  Abbott  La  Clavel.  Charles  paid  little 
attention  to  the  bull  fighting,  for  he  was  far  in 
the  sky  of  his  altruism ;  his  presence  at  the  Plaza 
de  Toros  was  merely  mechanical,  the  routine  of 
his  life  in  Havana.  Across  from  him  the  banked 
humanity  in  the  cheaper  seats  a  sol,  exposed  to  the 
full  blaze  of  mid-afternoon,  made  a  pattern  with 
out  individual  significance;  he  heard  the  quick 
bells  of  the  mules  that  dragged  out  the  dead 

[71] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

bulls;  a  thick  revolting  odor  rose  from  the  hot 
sand  soaked  with  the  blood  and  entrails  of  horses. 

At  times,  half  turning,  he  saw  the  brilliant 
shawl  of  the  dancer,  and  more  than  once  he  dis 
tinguished  her  voice  in  the  applause  following  a 
specially  skilful  or  daring  pass.  He  thought  of 
her  with  a  passionate  admiration  unaffected  by 
the  realization  that  she  had  brought  them  the 
worst  of  luck:  perhaps  any  touch  of  Spain  was 
corrupting,  fatal.  And  the  sudden  desire  seized 
him  to  talk  to  La  Clavel  and  make  sure  that  her 
superb  art  was  unshadowed  by  the  disturbing 
possibilities  voiced  by  Andres. 

There  were  cries  of  fuego!  fuego!  and 
Charles  Abbott  was  conscious  of  a  bull  who  had 
proved  indifferent  to  sport.  A  banderillero,  flut 
tering  his  cloak,  stepped  forward  and  planted  in 
the  beast's  shoulder  a  dart  that  exploded  loudly 
with  a  spurt  of  flame  and  smoke;  there  was  a 
smothered  bellow,  and  renewed  activities  went 
forward  below.  "What  a  rotten  show!"  Charles 
said  to  Andres,  and  the  latter  accused  him  of  be* 
ing  a  tender  sentimentalist.  Jose  Ponce,  Andres 
pronounced  with  satisfaction,  was  a  great  sword. 
The  espada  was  about  to  kill :  he  moved  as  grace 
fully  as  though  he  were  in  the  figure  of  a  dance; 
his  thrust,  as  direct  as  a  flash  of  lightning,  went 

[72] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

up  to  the  hilt,  and  the  vomiting  bull  fell  in  crash 
ing  death  at  his  feet. 

"  Suppose,  for  a  change,  we  go  to  the  Aguila  de 
Oro,"  Andres  suggested;  "the  air  is  better  there." 
By  that  he  meant  that  the  cafe  was  relatively  free 
from  Spaniards.  The  throng  moved  shoulder  to 
shoulder  slowly  to  the  doors;  but  Charles  man 
aged  to  work  his  way  constantly  nearer  the  con 
spicuous  figure  of  La  Clavel.  He  despaired, 
however,  of  getting  close  to  her,  when  an  unfore 
seen  eddy  of  humanity  separated  the  dancer  from 
her  companions  and  threw  her  into  Charles'  path. 
She  recognized  him  immediately:  but,  checking 
his  formal  salutation,  she  said,  in  a  rapid  low 
ered  voice,  that  she  would  very  much  like  to  see 
him  ...  at  the  St.  Louis  late  on  the  afternoon 
of  tomorrow.  They  were  separated  immediately, 
leaving  in  Charles  a  sense  of  excited  anticipa 
tion.  He  joined  Andres  soon  after  and  told  him 
what  had  occurred. 

"I  suppose  it  is  safe  for  you,"  Andres  decided; 
"you  are  an  American,  no  one  has  yet  connected 
you  with  the  cause  of  Cuba.  But  this  woman — 
What  do  we  know  of  her? — you'll  have  to  be  pru 
dent!" 

Andres  Escobar  had  grown  severe  in  the  last 
week,  he  had  hardened  remarkably;  his  concen- 

[73] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

tration,  Charles  felt,  his  bitterness,  even  excluded 
his  friends.  Charles  Abbott's  affection  for  him 
increased  daily;  his  love,  really,  for  Andres  was 
a  part  of  all  that  was  highest  in  him.  Unlike 
the  love  of  any  woman,  Andres  made  no  demand 
on  him,  what  only  mattered  was  what  each  in 
trinsically  was:  there  were  no  pretence,  no  weary 
protestations,  nothing  beside  the  truth  of  their 
mutual  regard,  their  friendship.  What  Charles 
possessed  belonged  equally,  without  demand,  to 
Andres;  they  had,  aside  from  their  great  preoc 
cupation,  the  same  thoughts  and  prejudices,  the 
same  taste  in  refrescos  and  beauty  and  clothes. 
They  discovered  fresh  identical  tastes  with  a  rush 
of  happiness. 

It  was,  like  the  absorbing  rest,  immaterial,  the 
negation  of  ordinary  aims  and  ideas  of  comfort 
and  self-seeking.  Charles  would  have  died  for 
Andres,  Andres  for  Charles,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation;  indeed,  the  base  of  their  feeling  lay 
in  the  full  recognition  of  that  fact.  This  they 
admitted  simply,  with  no  accent  of  exaggeration 
or  boasting:  on  the  present  plane  of  their  being 
it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 

At  the  Aguila  de  Oro,  spinning  the  paddle  of  a 
molinillo,  an  individual  chocolate  mill,  Andres 
informed  Charles  that  Vincente  was  home.  "He 

[74] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

has  told  me  everything,"  Andres  Escobar  contin 
ued  with  pride.  "We  are  now  more  than  Esco 
bars — brother  Cubans.  He  has  been  both  shot 
and  sabred  and  he  has  a  malaria.  But  nearly  all 
his  friends  are  dead.  Soon,  he  says,  we,  Jaime 
and  Remigio — and,  I  added,  you — will  have  to 
go  out.  He  is  to  let  us  know  when  and  how." 
"Do  the  police  know  he  is  in  Havana?" 
"We  think  not;  they  haven't  been  about  the 
house  since  the  investigation  of  the  de  Vaca 
affair,  and  our  servants  are  not  spies.  You  must 
come  and  see  Vincente  this  evening,  for  he  may 
leave  at  any  hour.  It  seems  that  he  is  celebrated 
for  his  bravery  and  the  Spaniards  have  marked 
him  for  special  attention.  Papa  and  mama  are 
dreadfully  disturbed,  and  not  only  because  of 
him;  for  if  he  is  discovered,  all  of  us,  yes,  little 
Narcisa,  will  be  made  to  pay — to  a  horrible  de 
gree,  I  can  tell  you." 


There  was,  apparently,  nothing  unusual  in  the 
situation  at  the  Escobars'  when  Charles  called  in 
the  evening.  The  family,  exactly  as  he  had 
known  it,  was  assembled  in  the  drawing-room, 
conversing  under  the  icy  flood  of  the  crystal  chan- 

[75] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

delier.  He  found  a  chair  by  Narcisa,  and 
listened  studiously  to  the  colloquial  Spanish,  run 
ning  swiftly  around  the  circle,  alternating  with 
small  thoughtful  silences.  Soon,  however, 
Charles  Abbott  could  see  that  the  atmosphere  was 
not  normal — the  vivacity  palpably  was  forced 
through  the  shadow  of  a  secret  apprehension. 
Domingo  Escobar  made  sudden  seemingly  irrele 
vant  gestures,  Carmita  sighed  out  of  her  rotund 
ity.  Only  Narcisa  was  beyond  the  general  sub 
dued  gloom :  in  her  clear  white  dress,  her  clocked 
white  silk  stockings,  and  the  spread  densely  black 
curtain  of  her  hair,  she  was  intent  on  a  wonder 
ing  thought  of  her  own.  Her  gaze,  as  usual,  was 
lowered  to  her  loosely  clasped  hands ;  but,  grow 
ing  conscious  of  Charles'  regard,  she  looked  up 
quickly,  and,  holding  his  eyes,  smiled  at  him 
with  an  incomprehensible  sweetness. 

He  regarded  her  with  a  gravity  no  more  than 
half  actual — his  mind  was  set  upon  Vincente — 
and  her  even  pallor  was  invaded  by  a  slow  soft 
color.  Charles  nodded,  entirely  friendly,  and  she 
turned  away,  so  abruptly  that  her  hair  swung  out 
and  momentarily  hid  her  profile.  He  forgot  her 
immediately,  for  he  had  overheard,  half  under 
stood,  an  allusion  to  the  Escobars'  elder  son. 
With  a  growing  impatience  he  interrogated 

[76] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Andres,  and  the  latter  nodded  a  reassurance. 
Then  Andres  Escobar  rose,  punctiliously  facing 
his  father — he  would,  with  permission,  take 
Charles  to  the  upper  balconies,  the  wide  view 
from  which  he  had  never  seen.  Domingo  was 
plainly  uneasy,  displeased;  but,  after  a  long 
frowning  pause,  gave  his  reluctant  consent. 
Charles  Abbott  was  acutely  aware  of  his  heels 
striking  against  the  marble  steps  which,  broad, 
imposing  and  dark,  led  above.  Vincente,  it  de 
veloped,  without  actually  being  in  hiding,  was 
limited  to  the  scope  of  the  upper  hall,  where, 
partly  screened  in  growing  palms,  its  end  formed 
a  small  salon. 

There  was  a  glimmer  of  light  though  sword- 
like  leaves,  and  a  lamp  on  an  alabaster  table  set 
in  ormolu  cast  up  its  illumination  on  a  face  from 
which  every  emotion  had  been  banished  by  a 
supreme  weariness.  Undoubtedly  at  one  time 
Vincente  Escobar  had  been  as  handsome  as 
Andres;  more  arbitrary,  perhaps,  with  a  touch  of 
impatience  resembling  petulance;  the  carriage, 
the  air,  of  a  youth  spoiled  by  unrestrained  inclin 
ation  and  society.  The  ghost  of  this  still  lin 
gered  over  him,  in  the  movement  of  his  slender 
hands,  the  sharp  upflinging  of  his  chin;  but  it 
was  no  more  than  a  memento  of  a  gay  and  utterly 

[77] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

lost  past.  The  weariness,  Charles  began  to  real 
ize,  was  the  result  of  more  than  a  spent  physical 
and  mental  being — Vincente  was  ill.  He  had 
acquired  a  fever,  it  was  brought  out,  in  the 
jungles  of  Camagiiey. 

At  first  he  was  wholly  indifferent  to  Charles; 
at  the  end  of  Andres'  enthusiastic  introduction, 
after  a  flawless  but  perfunctory  courtesy,  Vincente 
said: 

"The  United  States  is  very  important  to  us;  we 
have  had  to  depend  almost  entirely  on  the  New 
York  Junta  for  our  life.  We  have  hope,  too,  in 
General  Grant.  Finally  your  country,  that  was 
so  successful  in  its  liberation,  will  understand  us 
completely,  and  sweep  Spain  over  the  sea.  But, 
until  that  comes,  we  need  only  money  and  cour 
age  in  our,  in  Cuban,  hearts.  You  are,  I  under 
stand  from  Andres,  rich;  and  you  are  generous, 
you  will  give?" 

That  direct  question,  together  with  its  hint  at 
the  personal  unimportance  of  his  attachment  to 
a  cause  of  pure  justice,  filled  Charles  with  both 
resentment  and  discomfort.  He  replied  stiffly, 
in  halting  but  adequate  Spanish,  that  there  had 
been  a  misunderstanding:  "I  am  not  rich;  the 
money  I  have  you  would  think  nothing — it  might 
buy  a  stand  or  two  of  rifles,  but  no  more.  What 

[78] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

I  had  wanted  to  spend  was  myself,  my  belief  in 
Cuba.  It  seemed  to  me  that  might  be  worth 
something — "  he  stopped,  in  the  difficulty  of  giv 
ing  expression  to  his  deep  convictions;  and 
Andres  warmly  grasped  his  hand.  He  held 
Charles'  palm  and  addressed  his  brother  in  a  pas 
sionate  flood  of  protest  and  assertion:  Charles 
Abbott,  his  dear  friend,  was  as  good  a  patriot  as 
any  Escobar,  and  they  should  all  embrace  him 
in  gratitude  and  welcome;  he  was,  if  not  the  gold 
of  the  United  States,  its  unselfish  and  devoted 
heart;  his  presence  here,  his  belief  in  them,  was 
an  indication  of  what  must  follow. 

"If  he  were  killed,"  Andres  explained.  "That 
alone  would  bring  us  an  army;  the  indignation 
of  his  land  would  fall  like  a  mountain  on  our 


enemies." 


This,  giving  Charles  a  fresh  view  of  his  use 
fulness,  slightly  cooled  his  ardor;  he  was  willing 
to  accept  it,  in  his  exalted  state  he  would  make 
any  sacrifice  for  the  ideal  that  had  possessed  him; 
but  there  was  an  acceptance  of  brutal  unsenti 
mental  fact  in  the  Latin  fibre  of  the  Escobars 
foreign  to  his  own  more  romantic  conceptions. 
Vincente  wasn't  much  carried  away  by  the  pos 
sibility  Andres  revealed. 

"He'd  be  got  out  of  the  way  privately,"  he  ex- 
[791 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

plained  in  his  drained  voice;  "polite  letters  and 
no  more,  regrets,  would  be  exchanged.  The  poli 
ticians  of  Washington  are  not  different  from  those 
of  Cuba.  If  he  is  wise  he  will  see  Havana  as 
an  idler.  Even  you,  Andres,  do  not  know  yet 
what  is  waiting  for  you.  It  is  one  thing  to  con 
spire  in  a  balcony  on  the  Prado  and  another  to  lie 
in  the  marshes  of  Camagiiey.  You  cannot  real 
ize  how  desperate  Spain  is  with  the  debt  left  from 
her  wars  with  Morocco  and  Chile  and  Peru. 
Cuba,  for  a  number  of  years,  has  been  her  rich 
est  possession.  While  the  Spaniards  were  pay 
ing  taxes  of  three  dollars  and  twenty  some  cents, 
we,  in  Cuba,  were  paying  six  dollars  and  sixty- 
nine.  After  our  declaration  of  independence  at 
Manzanillo — "  an  eloquent  pause  left  his  hearers 
to  the  contemplation  of  what  had  followed. 

"You  know  how  it  has  gone  with  us,"  Vincente 
continued,  almost  exclusively  to  the  younger  Es 
cobar.  "Carlos  Cespedes  left  his  practice  of  the 
law  at  Bayamo  for  a  desperate  effort  with  less 
than  a  hundred  and  thirty  men.  But  they  were 
successful,  and  in  a  few  weeks  we  had  fifteen 
thousand,  with  the  constitution  of  a  republican 
government  drawn.  We  ended  slavery/'  here, 
for  a  breath,  he  addressed  Charles  Abbott.  "But 
in  that,"  he  specified,  "we  were  different  from 

[80] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

you.  In  the  United  States  slavery  was  con 
sidered  as  only  a  moral  wrong.  Your  Civil  War 
was,  after  all,  an  affair  of  philanthropy;  while 
we  freed  the  slaves  for  economic  reasons. 

"Well,  our  struggle  went  on,"  he  returned  to 
Andres,  "and  we  were  victorious,  with,  at  the 
most,  fifty  thousand  men  against  how  many? 
One,  two,  hundred  thousand.  And  we  began  to 
be  recognized  abroad,  by  Bolivia  and  Columbia 
and  the  Mexican  Congress.  The  best  Cubans, 
those  like  ourselves,  were  in  sympathy  with  the 
insurrection.  Everything  was  bright,  the  cli 
mate,  too,  was  fighting  for  us ;  and  then,  Andres, 
we  lost  man  after  man,  the  bravest,  the  youngest, 
first:  they  were  murdered,  as  I  may  be  tonight, 
killed  among  the  lianas,  overtaken  in  the  vil 
lages,  smothered  in  small  detachments  by  great 
forces,  until  now.  And  it  is  for  that  I  have  said 
so  much,  when  it  is  unnecessary  to  pronounce  a 
word.  What  do  you  think  is  our  present  situa 
tion?  What  do  you  think  I  left  of  our  splendid 
effort  in  the  interior?  General  Agramonte  and 
thirty-five  men.  That  and  no  more! 

"Their  condition  you  may  see  in  me — wasted, 
hardly  stronger  than  pigeons,  and  less  than  half 
armed.  What,  do  you  think,  one  boy  from  Penn 
sylvania  is  worth  to  that?  Can  he  live  without 

[81] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

food  more  than  half  the  time,  without  solid  land 
under  his  feet,  without  protection  against  the  mos 
quitoes  and  heat  and  tropical  rains?  And  in 
Havana:  but  remember  your  friend,  Tirso  Lab 
rador!  You,  Andres,  have  no  alternative;  but 
your  Charles  Abbott — he  would  be  a  danger 
rather  than  an  assistance."  Charles,  with  a 
prodigious  effort  at  a  calm  self-control,  an 
swered  him. 

"You  are  very  thoughtful,  and  it  is  right  to 
be  cautious,  but  what  you  say  is  useless.  Andres 
'  understands!  I'd  never  be  satisfied  to  be  any 
thing  except  a  Cuban  patriot.  It  isn't  necessary 
for  you  to  understand  that  in  a  minute,  an  eve 
ning.  I  might  be  no  good  in  Camaguey,  but  I 
am  not  as  young  as  Tirso;  I  am  more  bitter  and 
patient.  By  heaven,  I  will  do  something,  I 
will  be  a  part  of  your  bravery!  Not  only  the 
soldiers  in  the  field,  not  only  Agramonte,  but 
sacrifice — " 


Charles'  throat  was  closed,  his  words  stopped, 
by  the  intensity  of  his  feeling;  his  longing  to  be 
identified,  lost,  in  the  spirit  of  General  Agra 
monte  and  the  faithful  thirty-five  burned  into  a 

[82] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

desperation  of  unhappiness.  Vincente  Escobar, 
it  was  evident,  thought  that  he  wasn't  capable 
of  sustaining  such  a  trust.  Still  there  was  noth 
ing  to  be  gained  by  protests,  hot  asseverations; 
with  difficulty  he  suppressed  his  resentment,  and 
sat,  to  all  appearances,  calm,  engaged  with  a 
cigar  and  attending  Vincente's  irregular  vehe 
ment  speech.  Andres  was  silent,  dark  and  seri 
ous;  but  the  gaze  he  turned  upon  Charles  was 
warm  with  affection  and  admiration.  Nothing, 
Vincente  insisted,  could  be  done  now;  they  must 
wait  and  draw  into  their  cause  every  possible 
ultimate  assistance  and  understanding.  If  the 
truth  were  known,  he  repeated  again  and  again, 
the  world  would  be  at  their  feet. 

Finally,  his  enthusiasm,  his  power,  ebbed;  his 
yellow  pinched  face  sank  forward:  he  was  so 
spent,  so  delivered  to  a  loose  indifference  of  body, 
that  he  might  well  have  been  dead.  Charles 
rose  with  a  formal  Spanish  period  voicing  the 
appreciation  of  the  honor  that  had  been  his. 

"We  are  all  worried  about  Vincente,"  Andres 
proceeded,  as  they  were  descending  the  vault- 
like  stairs;  "there  is  a  shadow  on  him  like  bad 
luck.  But  it  may  be  no  more  than  the  fever. 
Our  mother  thinks  he  needs  only  her  love  and 
enough  wine  jelly."  They  were  again  in  the 

[83] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

drawing-room  with  the  Escobars;  and  Charles 
momentarily  resumed  the  seat  he  had  left  be 
side  Narcisa. 

Domingo  and  his  wife  were  submerged  in 
gloomy  reflection,  and  Andres  sat  with  his  gaze 
fixed  on  the  marble,  patterned  in  white  and  black, 
of  the  floor.  Suddenly  Narcisa  raised  her  head 
with  an  air  of  rebellion.  "It's  always  like  the 
church,"  she  declared  incredibly.  "Everything 
has  got  so  old  that  I  can't  bear  it — Vincente  as 
good  as  dead  and  Andres  resembling  a  Jesuit 
father!  Must  all  my  life  go  on  in  this  funeral 
march?"  The  elder  Escobars  regarded  her  in  a 
voiceless  amazement;  but  Andres  said  severely: 

"You  are  too  young  to  understand  the  tragedy 
of  Cuba  or  Vincente's  heroic  spirit.  I  am 
ashamed  of  you — before  Charles  Abbott." 

Narcisa  rose  and  walked  swiftly  out  upon  the 
balcony.  They  had  been,  it  seemed  to  Charles, 
rather  ridiculous  with  her;  it  was  hard  on  Nar 
cisa  to  have  been  thrust,  at  her  age,  into  such  a 
serious  affair.  The  Escobars,  and  particularly 
Vincente,  took  their  responsibility  a  little  too 
ponderously.  Following  a  vague  impulse,  made 
up  both  of  his  own  slightly  damaged  pride  and 
a  sympathy  for  Narcisa,  he  went  out  to  the  bal 
cony  where  she  stood  with  her  hands  lightly  rest- 

[84] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

ing  on  the  railing.  Veiled  in  the  night,  her  youth 
seemed  more  mysterious  than  immature;  he  was 
conscious  of  an  unsteady  flutter  at  her  unformed 
breast;  her  face  had  an  aspect  of  tears. 

"You  mustn't  mind  them,"  he  told  her;  "they 
are  tremendously  bothered  because  they  see  a 
great  deal  farther  than  you  can.  The  danger  to 
Vincente,  too,  in  Havana,  spies — " 

She  interrupted  him,  looking  away  so  that  he 
could  see  only  a  trace  of  her  cheek  against  the 
fragment  fall  of  her  hair.  "It  isn't  that,  but 
what  Andres  said  about  you." 

This  admission  startled  him,  and  he  studied 
Narcisa — her  hands  now  tightly  clasping  the 
iron  railing — with  a  disturbed  wonder.  Was  it 
possible  that  she  cared  for  him?  At  home, 
ignored  by  a  maturity  such  as  his,  she  would 
have  been  absorbed  in  the  trivial  activities  of 
girls  of  her  own  age.  But  Havana,  the  tropics, 
was  different.  It  was  significant,  as  well,  that 
he  was  permitted  to  be  with  her,  practically  alone, 
beyond  the  sight  and  hearing  of  her  mother;  the 
Escobars,  he  thought,  had  hopes  of  such  a  con 
summation.  It  was  useless,  he  was  solely  wedded 
to  Cuba;  he  had  already  pictured  the  only  dra 
matic  accident  of  the  heart  that  could  touch  him. 
Not  little  Narcisa!  She  was  turned  away  from 

[85] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

him  completely:  a  lovely  back,  straight  and  nar 
row,  virginal — Domingo  Escobar  had  said  this 
— as  a  white  rose  bud,  yet  with  an  impalpable 
and  seductive  scent.  In  other  circumstances,  a 
happier  and  more  casual  world,  she  would  have 
been  an  adorable  fate.  An  increasing  awkward 
ness  seized  him,  a  conviction  of  impotence. 
"Narcisa,"  he  whispered  at  her  ear;  but,  before 
he  could  finish  his  sentence,  her  face  was  close  to 
his,  her  eyes  were  shut  and  the  tenderness  of  her 
lips  unprotected. 

Charles  put  an  arm  about  her  slim  shoulders 
and  pressed  his  cheek  against  hers.  "Listen," 
he  went  on,  in  his  lowered  voice,  patching  the 
deficiencies  of  his  Spanish  with  English  words 
clear  in  their  feeling  if  not  in  sound,  "nothing 
could  have  shown  me  myself  as  well  as  you,  for 
now  I  know  that  I  can  never  give  up  a  thought 
to  anything  outside  what  I  have  promised  my 
life  to.  A  great  many  men  are  quite  happy  with 
a  loving  wife  and  children  and  a  home — a  place 
to  go  'back  to  always;  and,  in  a  way,  since  I 
have  known  you,  I  envy  them.  Their  lives  are 
full  of  happiness  and  usefulness  and  specially 
peace;  but,  dearest  Narcisa,  I  can't  be  like  that, 
it  isn't  for  me.  You  see,  I  have  chosen  to  love 
a  country;  instead  of  being  devoted  only  to  you, 

[86] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

there  are  thousands  of  women,  rich  and  poor 
and  black  and  white,  I  must  give  myself  for. 
I  haven't  any  existence,  any  rights,  of  my  own; 
I  haven't  any  money  or  time  or  security  to  offer. 
I  didn't  choose  it,  no,  it  chose  me — it's  exactly 
as  though  I  had  been  stopped  on  the  street  and 
conscripted.  A  bugle  was  blown  in  my  ear. 
Love,  you  must  realize,  is  selfish;  it  would  be 
selfish  to  take  you  on  a  steamer,  for  myself,  and 
go  north.  If  I  did  that,  if  I  forgot  what  I  have 
sworn,  I'd  die.  I  should  seem  to  the  world  to 
be  alive,  and  I'd  walk  about  and  talk  and  go  into 
the  city  on  seme  business  or  other ;  but,  in  reality, 
I  should  be  as  dead  as  dust. 

"There  are  men  like  that  everywhere,  Narcisa, 
perhaps  the  most  of  life  is  made  up  of  them. 
They  look  all  right  and  are  generally  respected; 
yet,  at  some  time  or  other,  they  killed  themselves, 
they  avoided  what  they  should  have  met,  tried 
to  save  something  not  worth  a  thought.  I  don't 
doubt  a  lot  never  find  it  out,  they  think  they  are 
as  good  as  ever — they  don't  remember  how  they 
once  felt.  But  others  discover  it,  or  the  people 
who  love  them  discover  it  for  them.  And  that 
would  happen  to  me,  to  us." 

In  reply  to  all  this  she  whispered  that  she 
loved  him.  Her  arm  slipped  up  across  his 

[87] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

shoulder  and  the  tips  of  her  fingers  touched  his 
left  cheek.  A  momentary  dizziness  enveloped 
him  at  her  immeasurable  sweetness:  it  might  be 
that  she  was  a  part  of  what  he  was  to  find,  to 
do,  in  Cuba;  and  then  his  emotion  perished  in 
the  bareness  of  his  heart  to  physical  passion. 
Its  place  was  taken  by  a  deep  pride  in  his  aloof 
ness  from  the  flesh;  that  alone,  he  felt,  dignified 
him,  set  him  above  the  mischances  of  self-be 
trayal. 

Charles  Abbott  kissed  her  softly  and  then  took 
her  hands.  "You  wouldn't  want  me,  Narcisa," 
he  continued;  "if  I  failed  in  this,  I  should  fail 
you  absolutely.  If  I  were  unfaithful  now  I 
could  never  be  faithful  to  you." 

She  drew  her  hands  sharply  away.  "It's  you 
who  are  young  and  not  I,"  she  declared;  "you 
talk  like  a  boy,  like  Andres.  All  you  want  is  a 
kind  of  glory,  like  the  gold  lace  the  officers  of 
Isabella  wear.  Nothing  could  be  more  selfish." 

"You  don't  understand,"  he  replied  patiently. 

Narcisa,  he  felt,  could  never  grasp  what  was 
such  a  profound  part  of  his  masculine  necessity. 
Abstractions,  the  liberty,  for  example,  of  an  alien 
people,  would  have  little  weight  against  her  in 
stinct  for  the  realities  in  her  own  heart.  Her 
emotion  was  tangible,  compared  with  his  it  was 

[88] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

deeply  reasonable;  it  moved  in  the  direction  of 
their  immediate  good,  of  the  happiness,  the  full 
ness,  of  their  beings;  while  all  his  desire,  his 
hope,  was  cloudy,  of  the  sky.  In  the  high  silver 
radiance  of  his  idealism,  the  warmer  green  of 
earth,  the  promise  of  Narcisa's  delicate  charm, 
the  young  desire  in  his  blood,  were,  he  felt,  far 
away,  dim  .  .  .  below. 

* 
*  * 

The  conviction  fastened  upon  him  that  this 
chance  realization  would  determine,  where  women 
were  concerned,  the  whole  of  his  life.  But  that 
space,  he  reminded  himself,  short  at  best,  was, 
in  him,  to  terminate  almost  at  once.  All  his 
philosophy  of  resistance,  of  strength,  was  built 
upon  the  final  dignity  of  a  supreme  giving.  His 
thoughts  went  back  to  Narcisa  as  he  sat  in  La 
Clavel's  room  in  the  St.  Louis,  watching  a  hair 
dresser  skilfully  build  up  the  complicated  edi 
fice  of  the  dancer's  hair.  Soon,  he  grasped,  it 
would  be  ready  for  the  camellia  placed  back  of 
the  lobe  of  an  ear.  A  towel  was  pinned  about 
her  naked  shoulders,  she  had  on  a  black  fringed 
petticoat  and  dangling  slippers  of  red  morocco 
leather.  La  Clavel  was  faced  away  from 
Charles,  but,  in  the  mirror  before  which  she  sat, 

[89] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

he  could  see  her  features  and  vivid  changing 
expressions. 

The  truth  was  that,  close,  he  had  found  her 
disconcerting,  almost  appalling.  Climbing  the 
long  stairs  at  the  message  that  she  would  see  him 
in  her  room,  he  had  surrendered  himself  to  the 
romantic  devotion  which  had  overwhelmed  the 
small  select  circle  of  his  intimates.  This  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  admirable  sentiment  of  a 
practical  all-inclusive  love ;  it  was  aesthetic  rather 
than  social.  They  all  worshipped  La  Clavel  as 
a  symbol  of  beauty,  as  fortunately  unattainable 
in  a  small  immediate  measure;  and,  bowing  inside 
the  door  of  her  chamber,  he  had  been  positively 
abashed  at  the  strange  actuality  of  her  charm. 

La  Clavel  was  at  once  more  essentially  femi 
nine  than  any  other  woman  he  had  encountered 
and  different  from  all  the  rest.  A  part  of  the 
impression  she  created  was  the  result  of  her  pal 
lor,  the  even  unnatural  whiteness  under  the  night 
of  her  hair.  Her  face  was  white,  but  her  lips 
— a  carmine  stick  lay  close  at  her  hands — were 
brutally  red.  She  hurt  him,  struck  savagely  at 
the  idealism  of  his  image;  indeed,  in  the  room 
permeated  with  a  dry  powdered  scent,  at  the 
woman  redolent  of  vital  flesh,  he  had  been  a  little 
sickened.  However,  that  had  gone;  and  he 

[90] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

watched  the  supple  hands  in  the  crisp  coarse  mass 
of  her  hair  with  a  sense  of  adventure  lingering 
faintly  from  his  earlier  youth:  he  was,  in  very 
correct  clothes,  holding  his  hat  and  stick  and 
gloves,  idling  through  the  toilet  of  a  celebrated 
dancer  and  beauty. 

Or,  rather,  he  saw  himself  objectively,  as  he 
had  been  say  a  year  ago,  at  which  time  his  pres 
ent  situation  would  have  surpassed  his  most 
splendid  worldly  hopes.  It  was  strange,  he 
thought,  how  life  granted  one  by  one  every  de 
sire  .  .  .  when  it  was  no  longer  valued:  the 
fragrance,  the  tender  passion,  of  Narcisa,  the 
preference  in  La  Clavel  singling  him  out  from  a 
city  for  her  interest! 

She  smiled  at  him  over  her  shoulder,  and,  in 
return,  he  nodded  seriously,  busy  with  a  cigar 
ette;  maintaining,  in  a  difficult  pass,  his  complete 
air  of  indifference,  of  experience.  The  hair 
dresser  must  have  pulled  roughly  at  a  strand  for, 
with  a  sudden  harsh  vulgarity,  she  described 
him  as  a  blot  on  the  virginity  of  his  mother;  in 
an  instant  every  atom  of  her  was  charged  with 
anger.  It  was,  Charles  told  himself,  exactly  as 
though  a  shock  of  dried  grass  had  caught  fire; 
ignited  gun  powder  rather  than  blood  seemed  to 
fill  her  veins. 

[91] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Her  ill-temper,  tempestuous  in  its  course,  was 
over  as  quickly  as  it  had  flared  into  being.  She 
paid  the  hair-dresser  from  a  confusion  of  silver 
and  gold  on  her  dressing-table  and  dismissed 
him  with  a  good  nature  flavored  by  a  native  prov 
erb.  Then,  bending  above  a  drawer,  she 
brought  out  the  vivid  shawl  in  which  she  had 
danced.  La  Clavel  folded  its  dragging  bril 
liancy  squarely  along  its  length,  laid  it  across 
her  breast,  brought  the  fringed  ends  under  and 
up  over  her  arms,  crossed  them  in  a  swift  twist, 
and  she  was  wholly,  magnificently,  clothed. 
She  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  bed  covered  with  gay 
oddments  of  attire — fans  and  slippers  with  ver 
milion  heels,  lace  mantillas,  a  domino  in  sil 
ver  tissue  lined  in  carnation  and  a  knife  with  a 
narrow  blade  and  holder  of  silk. 

Charles  offered  her  his  cigarette  case,  but  she 
declined  in  favor  of  the  long  pale  cigars  Andres 
and  he  himself  affected.  With  its  smoke  drift 
ing  bluely  across  her  pallid  face,  her  eyes  now 
interrogating  him,  and  now  withdrawn  in 
thought,  she  asked  him  about  Tirso  Labrador. 
Charles  Abbott  quickly  gathered  that  his  presence 
was  for  that  sole  purpose. 

"I  heard  all  that  was  said,"  she  warned  him; 
"and  I  don't  want  that  repeated.  Why  did  he 

[92] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

try  to  garotte  de  Vaca  with  his  hands?  There 
was  more  in  it  than  appeared.  But  all  Ceaza 
will  say  is  that  he  was  a  cursed  traitor  to  the 
Crown.  Signor  American,  I  like  Cuba,  they 
have  been  very  good  to  me  here;  I  like  you  and 
your  polite  friends.  But  whenever  I  try  to 
come  closer  to  you,  to  leave  the  stage,  as  it  were, 
for  the  audience,  we  are  kept  apart.  The  Span 
ish  officers  who  take  up  so  much  of  my  time 
warn  me  that  I  must  have  nothing  to  do 
with  disaffected  Cubans;  the  Cubans,  when 
I  reach  out  my  arms  to  them,  are  only  po 
lite. 

"  Certainly  I  know  that  there  has  been  a  re 
bellion;  but  it  is  stamped  out,  ended,  now;  there 
are  no  signs  of  it  in  Havana,  when  I  dance  the 
jota;  so  why  isn't  everyone  sensible  and  social; 
why,  if  they  are  victorious,  are  not  Gaspar  Arco 
de  Vaca  and  Ceaza  y  Santacilla  easier?  If,  as 
it  must  be,  Cuba  is  subjected,  why  doesn't  it  ig 
nore  the  unpleasant  and  take  what  the  days  and 
nights  always  offer?  There  can  be  no  longer, 
so  late  in  the  history  of  the  world,  a  need 
for  the  old  Inquisition,  the  stabbers  Philip  com 
manded." 

Charles  Abbott  had  an  impulse  to  reply  that, 
far  from  being  conquered,  the  spirit  of  liberty 

[93] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

in  Cuba  was  higher  than  ever  before;  he  wanted 
to  tell  her,  to  cry  out,  that  it  was  deathless;  and 
that  no  horrors  of  the  black  past  were  more  ap 
palling  than  those  practiced  now  by  the  Spanish 
soldiery.  Instead  of  this  he  watched  a  curl  of 
smoke  mount  through  the  height  of  the  room  to 
a  small  square  window  far  up  on  the  wall  where 
it  was  struck  gold  by  a  shaft  of  sunlight. 

"He  was  particularly  a  friend  of  yours ?"  she 
insisted,  returning  to  Tirso.  "You  were  always 
together,  watching  me  dance  from  your  box  in  the 
Tacon  Theatre,  and  eating  ices  at  the  El  Louvre 
or  at  the  Tuileries." 

He  spoke  slowly,  indifferently,  keeping  his 
gaze  elevated  toward  the  ceiling.  "Tirso  Lab 
rador  was  a  braggard,  he  was  always  boasting 
about  what  he  could  do  with  his  foolish  muscles. 
What  happened  to  him  was  unavoidable.  We 
weren't  sorry — a  thorough  bully.  As  for  the 
others,  that  dandy,  Quintara,  and  Remigio 
Florez,  who  looks  like  a  coffee  berry  from  their^ 
plantation  at  Vuelta  Arriba,  and  Escobar,  I  am 
very  much  in  their  debt — I  bring  the  gold  and 
they  provide  the  pleasures  of  Havana.  They  are 
my  runners.  I  haven't  the  slightest  interest  in 
their  politics;  if  they  support  the  Revolution  or 
Madrid,  they  keep  all  that  out  of  my  knowledge." 

[941 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

A  prolonged  silence  followed,  a  period  de 
voted  to  the  two  cigars.  "That  Escobar,"  La 
Clavel  said,  "is  a  very  beautiful  boy.  What 
you  tell  me  is  surprising;  he,  at  any  rate,  seems 
quite  different.  And  I  have  seen  you  time  after 
time  sitting  together,  the  two  or  three  or  four  of 
you,  with  affectionate  glances  and  arms.  I  am 
sensitive  to  such  things,  and  I  think  you  are  ly 
ing." 

An  air  of  amused  surprise  appeared  on  his 
countenance,  "If  you  are  so  taken  with  Andres 
Escobar,"  he  observed,  "why  did  you  make  this 
appointment  with  me?  May  I  have  the  pleas 
ure  of  taking  him  a  note  from  you?  he  is  very 
fond  of  intrigues." 

Leaning  forward  she  laid  a  firm  square  palm 
on  his  knee.  "You  have  told  me  all  that  I 
wanted — this  Tirso,  who  was  killed,  he  was  your 
dear  friend  and  his  death  an  agony;  the  smaller, 
the  coffee  berry,  you  are  devoted  to  his  goodness 
^and  simplicity;  beneath  Quintara's  waistcoats 
you  find  a  heart  of  gold.  But  Escobar — is  it 
Andres? — you  love  better  than  your  life.  They 
care  nothing  for  your  American  dollars;  it  is 
evident  they  all  have  much  more  than  you. 
What  is  it,  then,  you  are  united  by?  I  shall  tell 
you — Cuba.  You  are  patriots,  insurrectionists; 

[95] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Santacilla  was  right.  And  neither  is  your  rebel 
lion  crushed,  not  with  Agramonte  alive."  She 
leaned  back  with  glimmering  eyes  and  the  cruel 
paint  of  her  mouth  'smiling  at  him. 


She  was,  then,  Charles  Abbott  reflected,  an 
agent  of  Spain's;  calmly  he  rehearsed  all  they 
had  said  to  each  other,  he  examined  every  sen 
tence,  every  inflection  of  voice.  He  could  not 
have  been  more  circumspect ;  the  position  he  had 
taken,  of  a  pleasure-loving  young  American,  was 
so  natural  that  it  was  inevitable.  No,  La  Clavel 
knew  nothing,  she  was  simply  adopting  another 
method  in  her  task  of  getting  information  for 
Santacilla.  At  this,  remembering  the  adoration 
of  his  circle  for  her,  he  was  brushed  by  a  swift 
sorrow.  For  them  she  had  been  the  symbol,  the 
embodiment,  of  beauty;  the  fire  and  grace  of  her 
dancing  had  intensified,  made  richer,  their  sense 
of  life.  She  had  been  the  utmost  flashing  peak 
of  their  desire;  and  now  it  was  clear  to  him  that 
she  was  rotten  at  the  core,  La  Clavel  was  merely 
a  spy ;  what  had  engaged  them  was  nothing  more 
than  a  brilliant  flowery  surface,  a  bright  shawl. 

"You  are  wasting  your  efforts,"  he  assured 
[96] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

her,  with  an  appearance  of  complete  comfort. 
"Even  if  you  were  right,  I  mean  about  the  others, 
what,  do  you  think,  would  make  them  confide  in 
me,  almost  a  stranger?  You  understand  this  so 
much  better  than  I  that,  instead  of  questioning 
me,  you  ought  to  explain  the  whole  Cuban  situ 
ation.  Women  like  yourself,  with  genius,  know 
everything." 

She  utterly  disconcerted  Charles  by  envelop 
ing  him  in  a  rapid  gesture,  her  odorous  lips  were 
pressed  against  his  cheek.  "You  are  as  sweet  as 
a  lime  flower,"  La  Clavel  declared.  "After  the 
others — "  her  expression  of  disgust  was  singu 
larly  valid.  "That  is  what  I  love  about  you," 
she  cried  suddenly,  "your  youth  and  freshness 
and  courage.  Tirso  Labrador  dying  so  gallantly 
...  all  your  beardless  intent  faces.  The  re 
volt  in  Cuba,  I've  felt  it  ever  since  I  landed  at 
Havana,  it's  in  the  air  like  wine.  I  am  sick  of 
officers:  look,  ever  since  I  was  a  child  the  army 
has  forced  itself  upon  me.  I  had  to  have  their 
patronage  when  I  was  dancing  and  their  company 
when  I  went  to  the  cafes ;  and  when  it  wasn't  the 
cavalry  it  was  the  gentlemen.  They  were  always 
superior,  condescending;  and  always,  inside  me, 
I  hated  them.  They  thought,  because  I  was 
peasant  born,  that  their  attentions  filled  me  with 

[97] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

joy,  that  I  should  be  grateful  for  their  aristo 
cratic  presences.  But,  because  I  was  what  I  was, 
I  held  them,  with  their  ladies'  hands  and  sugared 
voices,  in  contempt.  There  isn't  one  of  them 
with  the  entrails  to  demand  my  love. 

"I  tell  you  I  was  smothering  in  the  air  about 
me.  My  dancing  isn't  like  the  posturing  of  the 
court,  it's  the  dancing  of  the  people,  my  people, 
passionate  like  a  knife.  I  am  from  the  Morena, 
and  there  we  are  not  the  human  sheep  who 
live  in  the  valleys,  along  the  empty  rivers.  How 
shall  I  explain?  But  how  can  you  explain  your 
self?  You  are  not  a  Cuban;  this  rebellion,  in 
which  you  may  so  easily  be  killed  almost  before 
you  begin  to  live,  it  isn't  yours.  What  drew  you 
into  it?  You  must  make  it  plain,  for  I,  too,  am 
caught." 

"Men  are  different  from  women,"  he  replied, 
putting  into  words  his  newly  acquired  wisdom; 
" whatever  happened  to  me  would  be  useless  for 
you,  you  couldn't  be  helped  by  it."  Yet  he  was 
forced  to  admit  to  himself  that  all  she  had  said 
was  reasonable;  at  bottom  it  didn't  contradict  his 
generalization,  for  it  was  based  on  a  reality,  on 
La  Clavel's  long  resentment,  on  indignities  to  her 
pride,  on,  as  she  had  said,  the  innate  freedom  of 
the  mountain  spirit.  If  she  were  honest,  any 

[98] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

possible  attachment  to  Cuba  might  result  from 
her  hatred  of  Spain,  of  Sevilla  and  Madrid. 
Hers,  then,  would  be  the  motive  of  revenge. 

"You  are  right  about  the  difference  in  our  ex 
periences,"  she  agreed;  "I  was  dancing  for  a 
living  at  six;  at  ten  I  had  another  accomplish 
ment.  I  have  lived  in  rooms  inlaid  with  gold, 
and  in  cellars  with  men  where  murder  would 
have  been  a  gracious  virtue.  Yes,  lime  flower, 
there  is  little  you  know  that  could  be  any  assist 
ance  to  me.  But  the  other,  your  purity,  your 
effort  of  nobility,  that  I  must  learn  from 
you." 

He  explained  his  meaning  more  fully  to  her, 
and  she  listened  intently.  "You  think,"  she  in 
terrupted,  "that  a  woman  must  be  attached  to 
something  real,  like  your  arm  or  a  pot  of  gold. 
You  know  them,  and  that  at  your  age,  at  any  age, 
is  a  marvel  enough  in  itself.  The  wisest  men  in 
Europe  have  tried  to  understand  the  first  move 
ment  of  my  dancing — how,  in  it,  a  race,  the 
whole  history  of  a  nation,  is  expressed  in  the 
stamp  of  a  heel,  the  turn  of  a  hip.  They  won 
der  what,  in  me,  had  happened  to  the  maternal 
instinct,  why  I  chose  to  reflect  life,  as  though  I 
were  a  mirror,  rather  than  experience  it.  And 
now,  it  seems,  you  see  everything,  all  is  clear  to 

[99] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

you.     You  have  put  a  label,  such  as  are  in  mu 
seums,  on  women;  good!" 

She  smiled  at  him,  mocking  but  not  unkind. 

"However,"  he  told  her  crossly,  "that  is  of, 
very  little  importance.  How  did  we  begin?  I 
have  forgotten  already." 

"In  this  way,"  she  said  coolly;  "I  asked  if 
it  would  be  of  any  interest  to — let  us  say,  your 
friends,  to  learn  that  the  United  States,  in  spite 
of  the  Administration,  will  not  recognize  a  Repub 
lican  Cuba.  Fish  is  unchangeably  opposed  to 
the  insurgents.  You  may  expect  no  help  there." 

"That  might  be  important  to  the  insurgents," 
he  admitted;  "but  where  are  they  to  be  found — 
in  the  cabildos  of  Los  Egidos?" 

"At  least  repeat  what  you  have  heard  to  Esco 
bar:  is  it  Andres  or  Vincente?" 

The  name  of  Andres'  brother  was  spoken  so 
unexpectedly,  the  faintest  knowledge  of  Vincente 
on  the  part  of  the  dancer  of  such  grave  impor 
tance,  that  Charles  Abbott  momentarily  lost  his 
composure.  "Vincente!"  he  exclaimed  awk 
wardly.  "Was  that  the  other  brother?  But  he 
is  dead." 

"Not  yet,"  she  replied.  "It  is  planned  for 
tonight,  after  dinner,  when  he  is  smoking  in  the 
little  upper  salon." 

[100] 


THE    BRIG.HT    S  H  A  W'L 

Agitated,  at  a  loss  for1  f archer  protest,  he  rose. 
He  must  go  at  once  to  the  Escobars,  warn  them. 
"You  will  admit  now  that  I  have  been  of  use," 
La  Clavel  was  standing  beside  him.  "And  it  is 
possible,  if  Vincente  Escobar  isn't  found,  and 
Ceaza  discovers  that  you  were  here,  that — "  she 
paused  significantly.  "I  am  the  victim  of  a 
madness,"  she  declared,  "of  a  Cuban  fever." 
But  there  was  no  time  now  to  analyse  the  proc 
esses  of  her  mind  and  sex. 

"I'll  be  going,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"Naturally,"  she  returned;  "but  what  about 
your  coming  back?  That  will  be  more  difficult, 
and  yet  it  is  necessary.  Ah,  yes,  you  must  pre 
tend  to  be  in  love  with  me;  it  will  be  hard,  but 
what  else  is  there?  A  dancer  has  always  a  num 
ber  of  youths  at  her  loose  heels. 

"You  will  be  laughed  at,  of  course;  the  officers, 
Santacilla  and  Caspar,  will  be  unbearable.  You 
will  have  to  play  the  infatuated  fool,  and  send 
me  bouquets  of  gardenias  and.  three-cornered 
notes,  and  give  me  money.  That  won't  be  so 
hard,  because  we  can  use  the  same  sum  over  and 
over;  but  I  shall  have  to  read  the  notes  to  my 
protectors  in  the  army." 

"I'll  be  going,"  he  repeated,  gathering  his 
stick  and  gloves  from  the  floor.  She  asked,  with 
[101] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

a  breath  'of-  wistfulness,  if  he  could  manage  a 
touch  of  affection  for  her?  Charles  Abbott  re 
plied  that  this  was  not  the  hour  for  such  ques 
tions.  "The  young,"  she  sighed,  "are  glacial." 
But  that,  she  proceeded,  was  exactly  what  drew 
her  to  them.  They  were  like  the  pure  wind  along 
the  eaves  under  which  she  had  been  born.  "I 
promise  never  to  kiss  you  again,  or,  if  I  must, 
solely  as  the  mark  of  brotherhood.  And  now  go 
back  to — to  Andres." 

She  backed  away  from  him,  superb  in  the 
shawl,  and  again  she  was  rayed  in  the  superla 
tive  beauty  of  her  first  appearance.  The  woman 
was  lost  in  the  dancer,  the  flesh  in  the  vision, 
the  art. 

"You  could  be  a  goddess,"  Charles  told  her, 
"the  shrine  of  thousands  of  hearts."  The  dec 
laration  of  his  entire  secret  was  on  his  lips; 
but,  after  all,  it  wasn't  his.  There  was  a 
possibility  that  she  had  lied  about  Vincente, 
and  at  this  second  he  might  be  dead,  the 
Volunteers  waiting  for  him,  Charles  Abbott, 
below. 


Hurrying   through   the   Paseo    Isabel   to   the 
Prado,  Charles,  looking  at  his  watch,  found  that 
[102] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

it  was  nearly  six.  Carmita  Escobar  and  Nar- 
cisa,  and  probably  Domingo,  were  driving  per 
haps  by  the  sea  or  perhaps  toward  Los  Molinos, 
the  park  of  the  Captain-General.  At  any  rate 
the  women  would  be  away  from  the  house,  and 
that,  in  the  situation  which  faced  the  Escobars, 
was  fortunate.  If  what  La  Clavel  said  were 
true,  and  Charles  Abbott  now  believed  her  im 
plicitly,  the  agents  of  the  Crown  would  be  already 
watching  in  the  Prado.  Vincente  must  be  smug 
gled  away;  how,  he  didn't  yet  see;  but  a  con 
sultation  would  result  in  a  plan  for  his  escape. 
The  servant  who  opened  the  small  door  in  the 
great  iron-studded  double  gate,  though  he  knew 
Charles  Abbott  well,  was  uncommunicative  to 
the  point  of  rudeness.  He  refused  to  say  who 
of  the  family  were  at  home;  he  intimated  that, 
in  any  case,  Charles  would  not  be  seen,  and  he 
attempted  to  close  him  out. 

Charles,  however,  ignoring  the  other's  protests, 
forced  his  way  into  the  arch  on  the  patio. 
He  went  up  the  wide  stairs  unceremoniously  to 
the  suite  of  formal  rooms  along  the  street,  where, 
to  his  amazement,  he  found  the  Escobar  family 
seated  in  the  sombreness  of  drawn  curtains,  and 
all  of  them  with  their  faces  marked  with  tears. 
Surprised  by  his  abrupt  appearance  they  showed 
[103] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

no  emotion  other  than  a  dull  indifference.  Then 
Andres  rose  and  put  his  hand  on  Charles'  shoul 
der,  speaking  in  a  level  grave  voice: 

"My  dear  Abbott,  Vincente,  our  brother,  has 
made  the  last  sacrifice  possible  to  men.  He  died 
at  noon,  sitting  in  his  chair,  as  a  result  of  the 
fever." 

This  was  tragic,  but,  with  a  deeper  knowledge 
of  the  dilemma  facing  them,  Charles  was  actu 
ally  impatient.  "What,"  he  demanded,  "are  you 
going  to  do  with  the  body?" 

"It  is  placed  in  dignity  on  a  couch,  and  we 
have  sent  to  Matanzas  for  a  priest  we  can  trust. 
He'll  be  here  early  in  the  morning,  and  then,  and 
then,  we  must  forget  our  love." 

"You  must  do  that  now,  without  a  minute's 
loss,"  Charles  urged  them.  "You  can  wait  for 
no  priest.  The  Spanish  Government  knows  he 
is  here;  tonight,  after  dinner,  he  was  to  have 
been  taken.  The  house  will  be  stood  on  its  roof, 
every  inch  investigated.  You  spoke,  once,  of 
Narcisa,  what  might  horribly  swallow  you  all. 
Well,  it  has  almost  come." 

Andre's'  grip  tightened;  he  was  pale  but  quiet. 
"You  are  right,"  he  asserted;  "but  how  did  you 
find  this  out,  and  save  us?"  That,  Charles  re 
plied,  was  of  no  importance  now.  What  could 
[104] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

they  do  with  Vincente's  body?  Carmita,  his 
mother,  began  to  cry  again,  noiselessly;  Narcisa, 
as  frigid  as  a  statue  in  marble,  sat  with  her  wide 
gaze  fastened  on  Charles  Abbott.  "What?" 
Domingo  echoed  desperately.  It  was  no  longer 
a  question  of  the  dignity,  the  blessing,  of  the 
dead,  bat  of  the  salvation  of  the  living.  Vin 
cente's  corpse,  revered  a  few  minutes  before,  now 
became  a  hideous  menace;  it  seemed  to  have 
grown  to  monumental  proportions,  a  thing  im 
possible  to  put  out  of  sight. 

Undoubtedly  soldiers  were  watching,  guard 
ing  the  house:  a  number  of  men  in  nondescript 
clothes  were  lounging  persistently  under  the  rows 
of  Indian  laurels  below.  A  hundred  practical 
objections  immediately  rose  to  confront  every  pro 
posal.  Carmita  and  Narcisa  had  been  sent  from 
the  room,  and  a  discussion  was  in  progress  of 
the  possibility  of  cutting  the  body  into  minute 
fragments.  "If  that  is  decided  on,"  Domingo 
Escobar  declared,  with  sweat  rolling  over  his  fore 
head,  "I  must  do  it;  my  darling  and  heroic  son 
would  approve;  he  would  wish  me  to  be  his 
butcher." 

Andres,  harder,  more  mature,  than  the  elder, 
stopped  such  expressions  of  sentiment.  It  would 
make  such  a  mess,  he  reminded  them;  and  then, 
[105] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

how  far  could  the  servants,  the  hysterical  ne 
groes,  be  depended  upon?  They  would  soon 
discover  the  progress  of  such  an  operation. 

Charles  suggested  fire,  but  the  Spanish  stoves, 
with  shallow  cups  for  charcoal,  were  useless,  and 
the  ovens  were  cold;  it  would  create  suspicion  to^ 
set  them  to  burning  so  late  in  the  day.  "Since 
we  can't  get  rid  of  it,"  Charles  declared,  "we 
must  accept  it.  The  body  is  there,  but  whose  is 
it?  Did  you  send  a  servant  to  Matanzas?" 

Two  had  gone,  riding,  once  they  were  beyond 
Havana,  furiously.  A  Jamaican  negro,  huge 
and  black,  totally  unlike  Vincente,  and  a  Cuban 
newly  in  the  city,  a  mestizo,  brought  in  from  the 
Escobars'  small  sugar  estate  near  Madriga. 
Andres  at  once  appropriated  Charles'  idea. 
Their  mother  and  Narcisa,  he  proclaimed,  must 
go  out  as  usual  for  their  afternoon  drive,  and  he 
would  secure  some  clothes  that  belonged  to  Juan 
Roman,  the  servant.  No  one  in  the  back  of  the 
house,  luckily,  had  seen  the  riders  leave.  Judged 
more  faithful  than  the  rest,  they  had  been  sent 
away  as  secretly  as  possible. 

"What,"  Charles  Abbott  asked,  "caused  his 

death?"     Andres  faced  him  coldly.     "This  pig 

of    a    countryman    I    killed,"    he    said.     "The 

Spanish  will  understand  that.     They  have  killed 

[106] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

a  multitude  of  us,  for  nothing,  for  neglect  in  pol 
ishing  the  back  of  a  boot.  It  will  be  more  dif 
ficult  with  the  servants, — they  are  used  to  kind 
ness,  consideration,  here;  but  they,  too,  in  other 
places,  have  had  their  lesson.  And  I  was 
drunk." 

In  spite  of  Charles'  insistence,  he  was  not  per 
mitted  to  assist  in  the  carrying  out  of  the  details 
that  followed.  He  sat,  walked  about,  alone  in 
the  drawing-room.  After  an  interminable  wait 
he  heard  the  report,  faint  and  muffled  by  walls, 
of  a  pistol,  and  then  running  feet  passed  the 
door.  Domingo  appeared  first,  a  glass  of 
brandy  in  his  shaking  hand: 

"He  has  gone,  in  a  sack,  to  be  thrown  into 
the  sea  ...  the  blood  hid  his  face.  Ah,  Jesu! 
But  it  was  successful — a  corporal  looked,  with 
the  hundred  doblons  I  pressed  into  his  hand. 
He  kicked  the  body  three  times,  thrust  a  knife 
into  it,  and  said  that  there,  anyhow,  was  one  less 
Cuban."  Andres  entered  the  room  and,  without 
speech,  embraced  Charles,  kissing  him  on  either 
cheek;  and  soon  Carmita  Escobar  and  Narcisa, 
with  their  parasols  and  embroidered  gloves,  re 
turned  from  their  drive. 

They  could  do  nothing  but  wait  for  what  im 
pended,  and  Charles  Abbott  related  to  Andres 
[107] 


THE  BRIGHT  SHAWL 
the  entire  scene  with  La  Clavel.  "I  believe  in 
her,"  he  concluded.  Andres  agreed  with  him. 
"Her  plan  is  excellent,"  he  pronounced;  "it  will 
be  very  hard  on  you,  though.  You  will  be  fed 
on  insults."  That,  Charles  protested,  was  noth 
ing.  "And,  worse  still,  it  will  end  our  compan 
ionship.  You  will  be  able  no  longer  to  go  about 
with  Jaime  and  Remigio  and  me.  Yes,  that,  so 
soon,  is  over.  What  was  left  of  our  happiness 
together  has  been  taken  away.  We  are  nothing 
now  in  ourselves.  How  quickly,  Charles,  we 
have  aged;  when  I  look  in  the  glass  I  half  ex 
pect  to  see  grey  hair.  It  is  sad,  this.  Why  did 
you  leave  your  comfort  and  safety  and  come  to 
us?  But,  thank  God,  you  did.  It  was  you  who 
saved  us  for  the  present.  And  that,  now,  is 
enough;  you  must  go  back  to  the  San  Felipe. 
Put  on  your  best  clothes,  with  a  rose  in  your  but 
tonhole,  and  get  drunk  in  all  the  cafes;  tell  any 
one  who  will  listen  that  La  Clavel  is  more  su 
perb  than  Helen  of  the  Greeks,  and  buy  every 
Spanish  officer  you  see  what  he  may  fancy." 

As  Charles  Abbott  left  the  Escobar  dwelling 
a  detachment  of  Cuban  Volunteers  on  horse,  and 
a  file  of  infantry,  their  uniform  of  brown  dril 
ling  dressed  with  red  collars  and  cuffs,  had  gath 
ered  across  its  face.  "Quien  vive?"  a  harsh 
[108] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

voice  stopped  him.  "Forastero,"  Charles  an 
swered  sullenly.  He  was  subjected  to  a  long  in 
solent  scrutiny,  a  whangee  cane  smote  him 
sharply  across  the  back.  He  regarded  the  men 
about  him  stolidly;  while  an  officer,  who  had 
some  English,  advised  him  to  keep  away  from 
suspected  Cubans.  But,  at  last,  he  was  released, 
directed  to  proceed  at  once  to  Anche  del  Norte 
Street,  where  his  passport  would  be  again  ex 
amined.  Charles  prepared  slowly  for  dinner  at 
the  Dominica;  and,  when  he  was  ready  to  go  out, 
he  was  the  pattern  of  a  fashionable  and  idle 
young  tourist.  But  what  filled  his  mind  was  the 
speculation  whether  or  not  the  Escobars  would 
remember  to  prevent  the  return  of  Juan  Roman 
with  the  priest  from  Matanzas. 


Nothing,  considering  the  aspirations  of  Charles 
Abbott,  could  have  been  more  ironical  than  the 
phase  of  life  he  entered  upon  the  acceptance  of 
La  Clavel  into  the  party  of  independence.  The 
entire  success  of  this  dangerous  arrangement  de 
pended  on  his  ability  to  create  an  impression, 
where  he  was  concerned,  of  unrelieved  vapidity. 
He  was  supposed  to  be  infatuated  with  the  dancer; 
[109] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

and  he  lingered,  not  wholly  sober,  about  the  fash 
ionable  resorts.  Charles  sent  her  flowers;  and, 
sitting  in  his  room  on  the  roof  of  the  San  Felipe, 
he  composed,  in  a  cold  distaste,  innumerable 
short  variations  on  the  theme  of  a  fluid  and 
fatuous  attachment.  In  reality,  he  had  been  re 
pelled  by  the  actuality  of  La  Clavel;  he  had  an 
unconquerable  aversion  for  her  room  with  its 
tumbled  vivid  finery,  the  powdered  scents  min 
gling  with  the  odors  of  her  body  and  of  the  brandy 
always  standing  in  a  -glass  beside  her.  Yet  the 
discrepancy  between  the  woman  herself  and  the 
Vision  she  had  bred  continued  to  puzzle  and 
disconcert  him. 

When  they  were  together  it  was  this  he  pre 
ferred  to  talk  about.  At  times  she  answered  his 
questioning  with  a  like  interest;  but  all,  prac 
tically,  that  she  understood  about  herself,  her 
dancing,  had  been  expressed  in  their  first  con 
versation  upon  that  topic.  The  rest,  at  best,  was 
no  more  than  a  childlike  curiosity  and  vanity. 
She  had  an  insatiable  appetite  for  compliment; 
and,  sincere  in  his  admiration  for  her  impersonal 
aspect,  Charles  was  content  to  gratify  her;  ex 
cept  when,  in  spite  of  her  promise,  she  kissed 
him  ardently.  This  never  failed  to  seriously 
annoy  him;  and  afterwards  she  would  offer  him 
[110] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

a  mock  apology.  It  detracted,  he  felt,  from  his 
dignity,  assaulted,  insidiously,  the  elevation  of 
his  purpose  in  life. 

He  cherished  a  dislike,  part  cultivated  and  part 
subconscious,  for  women.  All  his  thoughts  and 
emotions  were  celibate,  chaste.  Such  a  scene  had 
just  ended,  La  Clavel  was  at  her  glass,  busy  with 
a  rouge  pot  and  a  scrap  of  soft  leather;  and 
Charles  was  standing  stiffly  by  the  door.  She 
had  used,  in  describing  him,  a  Spanish  word 
about  the  meaning  of  which  he  was  not  quite 
clear,  but  he  had  an  idea  that  it  bore  a  close  re 
semblance  to  prig.  That  specially  upset  hirri. 
At  the  moment  his  dislike  for  her  almost  broke 
down  his  necessary  diplomacy.  In  an  island  of 
men  desirous  of  her  least  favor — her  fame  trans 
cended  seas  and  reached  from  coast  to  coast — he 
only,  thinking  less  than  nothing  of  his  privi 
lege,  had  an  instant  unchallenged  access  to  her. 

He  knew,  carefully  watched,  all  her  various 
dependents:  Calixto  Sola,  the  hairdresser,  a  crea 
ture  with  a  sterile  face  constantly  twisted  into 
painful  grimaces;  he  was  an  employee  in  a  bar- 
bering  shop  on  Neptune  Street,  too  volatile  for 
any  convictions,  but  because  of  a  spiteful,  in 
jured  disposition,  not  to  be  trusted.  Then  there 
was  La  Clavel's  maid,  Jobaba,  a  girl  with  an 

[in] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

alabaster  beauty  indefinitely  tainted  by  Africa. 
She  was,  Charles  decided,  the  most  corrupt 
being  he  had  ever  encountered.  Her  life  away 
from  the  St.  Louis  was  incredibly,  wildly,  de 
bauched.  Among  other  things,  she  danced,  as 
the  mulata,  the  rumba,  an  indescribable  affair; 
and  she  had  connections  with  the  rites  of  brujeria, 
the  degraded  black  magic  of  the  Carabale 
in  Cuba.  She  was  beautiful,  with  a  perfection 
of  grace,  except  for  the  direct  gaze  of  her  brown 
eyes,  which  revealed  an  opacity,  a  dullness,  like 
mud.  She  was,  even  more  than  to  La  Clavel, 
the  servant  of  Santacilla;  she  reported,  the  dan 
cer  told  Charles,  every  possible  act  and  speech 
of  her  mistress  to  the  Spaniards,  who,  in  return, 
supplied  her  with  a  little  money  and  a  load  of 
biting  curses. 

The  chambermaid  who  attended  La  Clavel's 
room  had  lost  a  lover  with  the  forces  of  General 
Agramonte,  and  was  of  use  to  Charles;  without 
knowledge  of  the  hidden  actuality  she  yet 
brought  him,  unread,  communications  for  the 
patriotic  party;  and  she  warned  him  of  San- 
tacilla's  presence  and  uncertain  humors.  The 
laundress  had  been,  in  her  youth,  an  actress  in 
the  cheap  local  theatres,  and,  when  she  was 
not  sodden  with  drink,  showed  an  admirable  de- 
[112] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

votion  to  her  famous  patron  by  the  most  delicate 
feats  imaginable  in  ironing.  She  was  almost 
purely  Spanish  and  had  only  a  contempt  for  the 
Cubefios. 

While  Charles  Abbott's  duty  was,  on  the  sur 
face,  direct  and  easy,  it  was  complicated  by  the 
need  for  a  constant  watchfulness,  a  wit  in  count 
less  small  details.  Supporting,  well  enough,  the 
boredom  of  his  public  role,  he  had  to  manage  with 
an  unfailing  dexterity  the  transmission  of  the 
information  that  came  to  the  insurrectionists 
through  La  Clavel.  These  facts  she  gathered 
through  the  unguarded  moments  of  Ceaza  y  San- 
tacilla's  talk — he  was  close  to  the  Captain-Gen 
eral  and  had  important  connections  at  Madrid 
• — and,  at  prolonged  parties,  from  the  conver 
sation  of  his  intimates.  Charles  put  these  com 
munications  into  contracted  written  English  sen 
tences  ;  in  that  way,  even  as  against  the  accidental 
chance  of  being,  at  any  time,  searched,  he  could 
better  convey  their  import;  and  gave  them  in 
carefully  planned,  apparently  incidental  encoun 
ters,  to  any  one  of  a  score  of  correctly  gloved  and 
boutonniered  young  men  he  had  come  to  know  by 
adroitly  managed  assurances. 

Charles  had  formed,  as  well,  principally  in 
the  Cafe  Dominica,  a  superficial  familiarity  with 
[113] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

other  Americans  in  Havana  for  banking  or  com 
mercial  purposes.  They,  regarding  him  as  im 
mensely  rich  and  dissipated,  were  half  contemp 
tuous  and  half  eager  for  the  associations,  the 
pleasures,  of  his  mode  of  life.  He  went,  as 
often  as  it  seemed  necessary,  to  the  United  States 
Club  on  Virtudes  Street,  where,  together  with 
his  patriots,  but  different  from  them  in  a  hidden 
contempt,  he  gambled,  moderately  and  success 
fully.  His  luck  became  proverbial,  and,  coupled 
with  La  Gavel's  name,  his  reputation  soon  grew 
into  what  he  intrigued  for.  Often,  alone  on  the 
hotel  roof,  he  regarded  himself  with  an  objective 
amazement:  everything  was  precisely  as  he  had 
planned,  hoped  for,  on  the  steamer  Morro 
Castle — and  entirely  different. 

It  was  probable  that  the  death  he  had 
not,  in  imagination,  shrunk  from,  would  crush 
him  at  any  unexpected  moment,  an  unpredict 
able  slip;  but  how  could  he  have  foreseen  the 
trivial  guise  he  would  wear?  Charles  was 
forced,  it  seemed  to  him,  to  ape  every  single 
quality  he  hated.  The  spending  of  his  money, 
as  legitimately  as  though  it  were  exchanged  for 
guns,  on  casual  acquaintances  and  rum  punches, 
on  gardenias  that  wilted  and  entertainment  that 
choked  him  by  its  vulgar  banality,  gradually  em- 
[114] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

bittered  him.  The  insincerity  of  the  compliments 
he  paid,  the  lying  compliments  to  which  he  lis 
tened  with  an  ingenuous  smile  and  an  entire  com 
prehension  of  their  worthlessness,  steadily  robbed 
his  ideal  of  its  radiant  aloofness. 

His  enthusiasm,  he  discovered,  his  high  ardor, 
must  be  changed  to  patience  and  fortitude,  the 
qualities  which  belonged  to  his  temperament  and 
years  had  to  give  place  to  those  of  an  accom 
plished  maturity ;  the  romance  of  his  circumstance 
deserted  the  surface  to  linger  hidden,  cherished, 
beneath  all  the  practical  and  immediate  rest.  He 
began  to  perceive  the  inescapable  disappointing 
difference  between  an  idea,  a  conception  of  the 
mind,  and  its  execution.  The  realization  of  that, 
he  told  himself,  the  seduction  of  the  lofty,  the 
aerial,  to  earth,  constituted  success,  power.  The 
spirit  and  the  flesh !  And  the  flesh  constantly 
betrayed  the  highest  determinations.  How  he 
resented,  distrusted,  the  mechanics,  the  traps  and 
illusions,  of  an  existence  on  an  animal  plane! 

His  fervor,  turned  in  upon  itself,  began  to  as 
sume  an  aspect  of  the  religious;  his  imposed  re 
volt  from  the  mundane  world  turned  his  thoughts 
to  an  intangible  heaven,  a  spotless  and  immate 
rial  hereafter.  The  white  facades  of  Havana,  in 
tolerably  gold  under  the  sun  and  glimmering  in 
[115] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

the  tropical  nights,  the  procession  and  clamor  of 
the  Dia  des  Reyes,  the  crowded  theatres,  the  res 
taurants  where,  with  no  appetite,  he  ate  as  little 
as  possible — began  to  appear  vague,  unsub 
stantial.  What,  so  intently,  was  on  every  hand 
being  done  he  thought  meaningless.  Where,  orig 
inally,  he  had  been  absorbed  in  bringing  relief 
to  countless  specific  Cubans,  he  now  only  dwelt 
on  a  possible  tranquility  of  souls,  a  state,  like 
that  promised  in  the  Bible,  without  corruption 
and  injustice  and  tears. 


These  considerations  particularly  occupied 
Charles  Abbott  waiting  inside  the  door  of  Santa 
Clara  Church  for  La  Clavel,  who  was  coming 
to  the  eight  o'clock  morning  mass.  Outside,  the 
day  was  still  and  very  hot,  intolerably  blazing, 
but  the  darkened  interior  of  the  church,  the  air 
heavy  with  incense,  was  cool.  An  intermittent 
stream  of  people  entered — the  white  and  gilt  of 
a  Spanish  naval  uniform  was  followed  by  gay 
silks,  a  priest  passed  noiselessly,  like  a  shadow; 
an  old  woman  with  a  rippling  fire  of  jewels  made 
her  way  forward,  across  the  wide  stone  floor,  with 
the  regular  subdued  tap  of  a  cane.  The  im- 
[116] 


THE   BRIGHT    SHAWL 

pending  celebration  of  the  mass  gathered  its  ac 
tivity,  its  white  and  black  figures,  about  an  altar. , 
Suddenly  Charles  envied  the  priests  in  their  ser 
vice  of  an  ideal  embodied  in  a  spiritual  Trinity. 
Even  Cuba  vanished  from  the  foreground  of  his 
thoughts  at  the  conception  of  a  devotion  not  alone 
to  an  island,  a  nation,  but  to  all  the  world  of 
men.  His  interest,  measured  with  this,  was 
merely  temporal,  limited. 

Compared  with  the  Protestant  influences  of  his 
birth  and  experience,  the  separation  of  religion 
from  society,  the  all-absorbing  gesture  and  the 
mysticism  of  the  Roman  church  offered  a  com 
plete  escape,  an  obliteration,  of  the  individual. 
But,  as  he  dwelt  upon  this,  he  realized  that,  for 
him,  it  was  an  impossibility.  He  might  be  a 
Franciscan,  begging  his  way,  in  brown  bagging 
and  sandals,  through  a  callous  world  for  which 
he  ceaselessly  prayed;  or  one  of  the  heroic  Jesuits 
of  the  early  French  occupation  of  the  Mississippi 
Valley.  Yet  these,  as  well,  were  no  more  than 
pictures,  designs  in  a  kaleidoscope  which,  im 
mediately  turned,  would  be  destroyed  in  a  fresh 
pattern.  He  was  brought  back  to  reality  by  the 
swinging  of  the  heavy  curtain  at  the  door;  a  seg 
ment  of  day,  like  a  white  explosion  of  powder, 
was  visible,  and  La  Clavel  proceeded  to  the 
[117] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

font  of  holy  water.  As  he  joined  her  she  com 
plained  : 

"You  should  have  held  it  for  me  in  your  palm; 
what  barbarians  the  Americans  and  English  are." 
She  was,  characteristically,  dressed  as  brightly 
as  possible,  in  a  mauve  skirt  with  an  elaborately 
cut  flounce  swaying  about  yellow  silk  stockings, 
a  manton  of  white  crepe  de  Chine  embroidered 
with  immense  emerald  green  blossoms;  her  hair 
piled  about  its  tall  comb  was  covered  with  a  man 
tilla  falling  in  scallops  across  her  brilliant  cheeks. 
In  the  church,  that  reduced  so  much,  she  was  star 
tling  in  her  bold  color  and  presence. 

A  negro,  whom  Charles  recognized  as  a  serv 
ant  at  the  St.  Louis,  followed  her  with  a  heavy 
roll  and  a  small  unpainted  chair  with  a  caned 
seat.  Before  the  altar,  under  the  low  pointed 
arches  of  the  transept,  he  spread  out  a  deep-piled 
Persian  rug — where  La  Clavel  promptly  kneeled 
— and  set  the  chair  conveniently  for  her.  Her 
devotion  at  an  end,  the  dancer  rose  and  disposed 
herself  comfortably.  The  constant  flutter  of  a 
fan  with  sandal  wood  sticks  stirred  the  edge  of 
her  mantilla.  After  she  had  scrutinized  the 
worshippers  about  them,  she  turned  to  Charles, 
speaking  in  a  guarded  voice. 

He  listened  with  an  intense  concentration,  in 
[118] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

the  careful  preliminaries  of  a  difficult  act  of  mem 
ory,  asking  her,  when  it  could  not  be  avoided,  to 
repeat  facts  or  names.  They  were,  now,  con 
cerned  with  the  New  York  Junta,  involved  tables 
of  costs,  and  La  Clavel  was  palpably  annoyed 
by  the  unaccustomed  necessity  of  a  strict  mental 
effort.  She  raised  her  eyebrows,  shot  an  inviting 
glance  at  an  interested  man  of  middle  age,  and 
shut  and  opened  her  fan  by  an  irritable  twist  of 
the  wrist.  Watching,  weighing,  her  mood, 
Charles  abruptly  brought  her  recital  to  an  end. 

"That  is  enough  for  the  present,"  he  decided. 

"My  choice  infant,"  she  retorted,  "your  air  of 
being  my  director  is  comic.  And  I  could  wish 
you  were  not  so  immaculate,  so  unworldly — you 
are  tiresome  more  often  than  not.  I  could  scream 
with  laughing  when  I  think  you  are  supposed  to 
be  my  servant  of  love."  The  striking  of  a  sil 
very  bell  interrupted  her  with  the  necessity  for 
a  reverence.  The  mutter  of  prayer  was  instantly 
lost  in  echoless  space.  The  genuflexions  of  the 
priests  and  acolytes  were  rapid.  "This  se 
crecy,"  she  went  on,  "is  against  my  disposition, 
unnatural.  I  am  a  woman  in  whom  the  com 
plete  expression  of  every  feeling  is  not  only  a 
good  but  a  necessity.  There  are  times  when  I 
must,  it  seems,  give  way  to  my  hatred  of  those 
[119] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

perfumed  captains.  I  sit  beside  Santacilla,  with 
his  hand  on  my  knee,  and,  hidden  by  my  skirt, 
my  fingers  are  wedded  to  the  knife  in  my  stock 
ing.  A  turn,  a  sweep  of  the  arm  .  .  .  there  is 
a  tearing  cut  I  learned  in  the  mountains." 

The  prayers,  the  Latin  invocations,  grew 
louder  with  the  symbolized  miracle  of  transub- 
stantiation,  the  turning  back  of  the  bread  and 
wine  into  the  humility  and  forbearance  of  Christ. 

Charles  Abbott  was  still,  pale  and  remote;  and 
the  heat  of  La  Clavel'-s  words  died  before  the 
vision  of  an  eternal  empire  of  souls  irrevocably 
judged.  She  sank  forward  again,  the  knotted 
fringe  of  her  manton  spread  out  beyond  the  rug, 
upon  the  stone.  After  a  little  he  told  her  that  her 
courage,  her  daring  and  patience,  were  magnifi 
cent.  But  she  replied  that  they  were  cold  vir 
tues.  "All  virtues  are  cold,"  Charles  assured 
her  seriously.  If  that  were  so,  La  Clavel  whis 
pered,  her  cheek  close  to  his,  she  was  lost  to  vir 
tue.  Anyhow,  she  didn't  believe  him,  he  could 
not,  at  his  age,  know  so  much.  Yet  not,  God 
comprehended,  that  he  wasn't  both  virtuous  and 
cold ;  any  other  man  in  the  world,  not  a  heathen, 
would  have  flung  himself  at  her.  Charles  said 
wearily : 

"We  have  been  over  this  before,  and  you  know 
[120] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 
that  I  do  not  care  for  women.     What  I  was  a 
few  years  ago — " 

"A  baby,"  she  informed  him. 

"What  I  was  a  few  years  ago/'  he  repeated 
with  dignity,  "is  no  longer  true  of  me.  I  belong 
body  and  spirit  to  the  cause  of  which  you  are 
aware.  And  if  I  didn't  it  would  be,  in  many 
respects,  no  different — science  and  the  liberation 
of  a  people  are  all  one,  selfless." 

"I  left  the  knife  out  of  my  present  toilet,"  she 
sighed.  "It  would  be  a  charity  to  free  you  from 
the  shape  you  hate  so  dearly." 

"I  must  go  back  to  the  San  Felipe  and  write 
what  you  told  me,"  he  proceeded.  "I  under 
stand  that  Santacilla  has  gone  out  on  a  slaughter 
ing  party,  and  I'll  have  to  take  you  around  in  the 
evening.  There  are  zarzuelas  in  the  Tacon 
Theatre  this  evening,  and  afterwards,  I  suppose, 
dukes  upstairs  at  the  Tuileries.  It's  no  good, 
though,  expecting  me  for  Retreta — I've  got  to 
have  some  time  to  recover  and  sleep :  four  o'clock 
last  night,  with  a  pack  of  imbeciles,  and  three  the 
night  before.  The  smell  of  Jamaica  rum  and 
limes  makes  me  sick." 

The  mass  was  over,  the  people  scattering,  and, 
once  more  cheerful,  she  laughed  at  him.     "You 
might  wear  a  hair  shirt,"  she  suggested;  "they  are 
[121] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

splendid  for  the  soul."  He  handed  her,  without 
reply,  into  the  small  victoria,  one  of  the  first  in 
Havana,  which  had  taken  the  place  of  her  vol- 
anta.  In  the  sun,  her  shawl,  her  smile,  were 
dazzling.  A  knot  of  men  gathered,  gazing  at 
her  with  longing,  regarding  Charles  Abbott  with 
insolent  resentment  and  wonder;  how,  their  ex 
pressions  made  clear  the  thought,  could  that  in 
significant  and  colorless  foreigner,  that  tepid 
American,  engage  and  hold  La  Clavel,  the  glory 
of  Cuba  and  Spain? 

She  drove  away,  shielding  her  eyes  with  the 
fan,  and  Charles  returned  slowly,  on  foot,  to  the 
hotel,  reaching  it  in  time  for  the  eleven  o'clock 
breakfast.  Bolting  his  door,  closing  the  high 
shutters  of  his  glassless  window,  he  lay  down 
tired  and  feverish.  The  vendors  of  oranges 
cried,  far  off,  their  naranjes,  naranjes  dukes. 
The  bed,  which  had  no  mattress,  its  sacking  cov 
ered  by  a  single  sheet,  the  pillow  stuffed  hard  with 
cotton,  offered  him  little  rest.  His  body,  wet 
with  sweat,  twisted  and  turned  continually,  and 
sleep  evaded  him;  its  peace  almost  within  his 
grasp,  it  fled  before  the  hot  insistence  of  his 
thoughts.  The  uncomfortable  flesh  mocked  and 
dragged  at  the  spirit.  It  occurred  to  him  sud 
denly,  devastatingly,  that  he  might  fail  in  his 
[122] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

purpose;  the  armor  of  his  conviction  of  invinci 
bility  fell  from  him  with  the  semblance  of  a  loud 
ringing. 


Of  all  the  disturbing  elements  in  Charles 
Abbott's  present  life  the  one  which,  it  had  seemed, 
must  prove  most  difficult,  Santacilla  and  his 
friends,  troubled  him  least.  There  was,  in  their 
jeering,  a  positive  quality  to  be  met ;  his  own  nec 
essary  restraint  furnished  him  with  a  sustaining 
feeling  of  triumph,  stability;  in  his  control,  the 
sacrifice  of  his  dignity,  his  actual  pride,  damaged 
by  La  Clavel,  was  restored.  He  acted  the  part 
of  the  infatuated,  ubiquitous  youth,  he  thought, 
with  entire  success.  It  had  been  hardest  at  first — 
Santacilla,  who  pretended  to  find  Charles  under 
his  feet  like  a  dog,  threatened,  if  he  didn't  stay 
away  from  the  St.  Louis,  to  fling  him  down  the 
long  flight  of  stairs  descending  from  the  dancer's 
room. 

This,  Charles  wholly  realized,  was  not  an  idle 
boasting.  Seated,  it  might  be,  quietly  against 
the  wall,  outside  the  immediate  circle  about  La 
Clavel,  the  officers,  the  Spanish  grandees  in  Cuba 
for  pleasure  or  for  the  supervision  of  their  copper 
[123] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

mines  at  Cobra,  Charles  would  watch,  study, 
Ceaza  y  Santacilla,  finding  in  him  the  epitome 
of  the  Spain  he  himself  hated.  What,  princi 
pally,  was  evident  about  the  officer  with  the  heavy 
short  neck,  the  surprising  red  hair,  and  small 
restless  blue  eyes,  was  cruelty  t>f  an  extraor 
dinary  refined  persistence.  He  had,  unexpect 
edly  in  his  sheer  brutal  bulk,  a  tormenting  spirit, 
a  mental  abnormality,  rather  than  the  to-be- 
looked-for  mere  insensate  weight  of  his  fist.  He 
was,  Charles  discovered,  the  victim  of  disordered 
nerves,  his  gaze,  his  thick  hands  or  shoulders, 
were  never  still,  and  his  lips  had  a  trick  of  move 
ment  as  if  in  the  pronunciation  of  soundless  pe 
riods. 

He  spoke,  even  to  La  Clavel,  abruptly,  mock 
ingly;  his  tenderest  words,  addressed  to  her  with 
a  sweeping  disregard  of  whoever  could  overhear, 
were  hasty,  introspective  rather  than  generous. 
More  frequently  he  was  silent,  redly  brooding. 
It  was  evident  to  the  most  casual  understanding 
that  Santacilla  was,  by  birth,  association  and 
ideas,  an  aristocrat  of  the  absolute  type  fast  dis 
appearing.  It  was  his  power  that,  in  a  world 
largely  affected  by  the  ideal  of  Christianity,  he 
was  ruthless ;  in  an  era  of  comparative  humanity 
he  was  inhuman.  There  was,  about  him,  the 
[124] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

smell  of  the  slow  fires  of  the  Inquisition,  of  lan 
guid  murder,  curious  instruments  of  pain. 
Charles  recalled  a  story  of  the  Spanish  occupa 
tion  of  Cuba — how  the  soldiers  in  armor  cut  and 
stabbed  their  way  through  a  village  of  naked,  un 
prepared  and  peaceable  bodies. 

That,  until  he  had  known  Santacilla,  had  been 
incomprehensible — a  page  of  old  history;  but 
now  Charles  understood:  he  could  see  the  heavy 
figure  with  a  darkly  suffused  face  hacking  with 
a  sword.  He  was  insane,  Charles  Abbott  told 
himself;  in  other  circumstances  he'd  be  soon  con 
victed  of  a  sensational  murder,  quickly  hanged  or 
put  in  an  asylum.  But  in  Havana,  as  an  officer 
of  the  Crown  quartered  on  a  people  he  held  in 
less  esteem  than  the  cattle  whose  slaughter  he 
applauded  in  the  bull  ring,  nothing,  practically, 
limited  his  mad  humors.  Yes,  here,  in  the 
West,  he  was  Spain,  the  old  insufferable  des 
potism,  and  Charles  thought  of  Santacilla's  neces 
sary  end  as  coldly  as  though  the  soldier  were  no 
more  than  a  figment  of  the  doomed  old  injustice. 

La  Clavel  was  seated  with  Charles  Abbott  in 
the  upper  room  of  the  Tuileries,  when  Santacilla 
slid  into  an  unoccupied  chair  beside  them.  They 
were  eating  mantecados,  frozen  sweetened  cream, 
and  Santacilla  dropped  a  number  of  battered 
[125] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Cuban  coins,  small  in  denomination,  into  Charles' 
half  consumed  ice. 

"If  you  were  a  man,"  he  said,  "you  could 
break  them  up  with  your  teeth." 

The  other  quietly  put  the  plate  away  and 
lighted  a  cigarette.  He  smiled,  as  if  in  apprecia 
tion  of  his  humor,  at  the  officer. 

"But  I'll  bet  you  twenty  doblons  you  can't  break 
one,"  he  added. 

Santacilla  replied  that  he  was  considering 
having  Charles  Abbott  deported. 

"You  are  so  dangerous,"  he  explained,  with 
the  grimace  that  served  him  as  a  smile.  "I 
often  consult  with  our  Captain-General.  'This 
Abbott,'  he  says;  'Agramonte  is  nothing,  but  I 
am  afraid  of  him.  He  is  wise,  he  is  deep.'  And 
then  we  think  what  can  be  done  with  you — a  tap 
on  the  head,  not  too  hard  and  not  far  from  the 
ear,  would  make  you  as  gentle  as  a  kitten.  I 
have  had  it  done;  really  it  is  a  favor,  since  then 
you  would  forget  all  your  trouble,  the  problems 
of  state.  You'd  cry  if  I  raised  a  finger  at  you." 
La  Clavel  interrupted  him  to  swear  at  his  de 
graded  imagination.  "And  the  figure  in  the 
jota!"  he  turned  to  her.  "You  know  that  the 
Spaniards  of  birth  have,  as  well  as  their  own, 
the  blood  of  the  Moriscos.  What  they  were, 
[126] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

what  the  East  is,  with  women,  I  beg  you  to  re 
member. 

"This  new  treatment  of  women  is  very  regret 
table.  I  am  a  little  late  for  absolute  happiness; 
too  late,  for  example,  to  fasten  your  tongue  with 
a  copper  wire  to  the  tongue  across  the  table  from 
you.  Lovers,  you  see,  joined  at  last."  He 
talked  while  he  ate,  in  a  manner  wholly  delicate, 
minute  fragile  dulces,  cakes,  glazed  in  green  and 
pink,  and  ornamental  confections  of  almond 
paste.  Unperturbed,  La  Cavel  found  him  com 
parable  to  a  number  of  appalling  objects  and 
states.  Coarse,  was  all  that  he  replied. 

"You  are  a  peasant,  a  beast,  and  what  you  say 
is  merely  stupid.  There  this  Abbott  is  your  su 
perior — he  has  a  trace,  a  suspicion,  of  blood.  I 
am  wondering,"  he  was  addressing  Charles  again. 
"It  seems  impossible  that  you  are  as  dull  as  you 
appear;  there  is  more,  perhaps,  than  meets  the 
eye.  Your  friendship  with  the  Escobars  broke 
up  very  suddenly;  and  you  never  see  Florez  and 
Quintara  with  his  borrowed  French  airs.  They 
are  nothing,  it  is  true,  yet  they  have  a  little  Cas- 
tilian,  they  are  better  than  the  avaricious  fools  at 
the  United  States  Club.  Of  course,  if  you  are  in 
love  with  this  cow  gone  mad,  a  great  deal  is  ac 
counted  for."  He  wiped  his  fingers  first  on  a 
[127] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

serviette  and  then  on  a  sheer  web  of  linen  marked 
with  a  coronet  and  his  cipher. 

"Pah!"  he  exclaimed,  looking  at  the  dancer, 
"your  neck  is  dirty  again." 

Sick  with  disgust,  his  blood  racing  with  a  pas 
sionate  detestation,  Charles  Abbott  laughed 
loudly.  But  he  was  relieved  that  Santacilla's 
attention  had  been  shifted  from  him.  Another 
officer,  a  major  of  the  Isabel  regiment,  tall  and 
dark  and  melancholy,  joined  them.  He  ignored 
Charles  completely,  and  talked  to  La  Clavel  about 
her  dances — the  Arragonese  jota  and  those  of  the 
other  provinces  of  Spain.  He  had,  it  developed, 
written  an  opera  on  the  subject  of  de  Gama  and 
a  fabulous  Florida.  Santacilla  grew  restive  at 
this  and  gazed  about  the  room  maliciously. 
Then,  suddenly,  he  rose  and  walked  to  the  table 
where  a  young  Cuban  exquisite  was  sitting  with 
a  girl  slender  and  darkly  lovely.  Santacilla 
leaned  over,  with  his  hands  planted  on  their 
table,  and  made  a  remark  that  drove  the  blood  in 
a  scarlet  tide  to  the  civilian's  face.  Then  the 
Spaniard  amazingly  produced  from  his  sleeve  a 
ball  of  lamb's  wool  such  as  women  use  to  powder 
their  faces,  and  touched  the  girl's  nose  lightly. 
He  went  to  another  table  and  repeated  his  act, 
to  another  and  another,  brushing  all  the  femi- 
[128] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

nine  noses,  and  returned,  unchallenged,  to  his 
place. 

"If  I  had  been  with  any  of  those  women,"  he 
related  comfortably,  "and  the  King  had  done  that, 
there  would  have  been  a  new  king  and  a  new 
infanta." 

The  musical  Spaniard,  inappropriately  in  uni 
form,  remonstrated,  "A  lot  of  them  will  kill  you 
some  night  in  the  Paseo  de  Valdez  or  on  the 
quays." 

Santacilla  agreed  with  him.  "No  doubt  it 
will  overtake  me — if  not  here,  then  on  the  Pe 
ninsula.  A  hundred  deaths,  all  distressing,  have 
been  sworn  upon  me."  Charles  Abbott's  expres 
sion  was  inane,  but,  correcting  that  statement, 
he  said  to  himself,  "A  hundred  and  one." 

La  Clavel  yawned,  opening  to  their  fullest  ex 
tent  her  lips  on  superb  teeth  and  a  healthy  throat. 

"I  have,  at  least,  a  sponge,  a  basin  of  water," 
she  proclaimed  indirectly. 

Santacilla  replied,  "You  think  nothing  can 
cleanse  me,  and,  in  your  chattering  way,  you  are 
right;  except,  it  may  be,  that  last  twist  of  steel 
or  ounce  of  lead.  Some  of  my  soldiers  are  plan 
ning  to  manage  it;  I  know  them  well,  and  I  gave 
one  an  opportunity  today:  I  stood  with  my  back 
to  him  in  the  parapet  of  the  Twelve  Apostles  for 
[129] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

three,  five,  minutes,  while  he  tramped  and  fiddled 
with  his  musket,  and  then  I  put  him  in  a  hole  in 
the  stone  for  a  year." 


The  other  Spanish  officer,  Caspar  Arco  de 
Vaca,  Santacilla's  closest  companion,  observed  to 
ward  Charles  an  air  of  profound  civility,  and  his 
pretence  was  more  galling  than  Santacilla's  mor 
bid  threats  and  exposed  contempt.  De  Vaca  was, 
in  temperament  and  appearance,  purely  Iberian: 
he  was  of  middle  height,  he  carried  his  slender 
body  with  an  assured  insulting  grace,  and  had  a 
narrow  high-boned  face,  a  bigoted  nose  and  a 
moustache  like  a  scrolling  of  India  ink  on  a  re 
pressed  and  secretive  mouth.  Charles  often  en 
countered  him  in  the  Fencing  School  on  the  Prado, 
across  from  the  Villa  Nueva  Theatre.  The  of 
ficers  of  Isabella  congregated  there  late  in  the 
afternoon,  where  they  occupied  all  the  chairs  and 
filled  the  bare  room  with  the  soft  stamp  of  their 
heels  and  the  harsh  grinding  of  engaged  buttoned 
steel.  The  foils,  however,  were  not  always  cov 
ered:  there  had  been  some  fatalities  from  duel 
ling  in  the  sala  de  Armas  since  Charles  Abbott  had 
been  in  Havana;  a  Cuban  gentleman  past  sixty 
[130] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

had  been  slain  by  a  subaltern  of  seventeen;  two 
officers,  quarreling  over  a  crillo  girl,  had  sus 
tained  punctured  lungs,  from  which  one  'had 
bled  to  death. 

The  Cubans,  it  was  made  evident,  were  there 
by  sufferance,  and  the  fencing  master,  Galope 
Hormiguero,  an  officer  who  had  been  retired 
from  a  Castilian  regiment  under  the  shadow  cf 
an  unprovoked  murder,  made  little  effort  to  con 
ceal  his  disdain  of  the  Islanders.  Charles  he  re 
garded  without  interest:  he  was  a  faithful  stu 
dent,  and  made  all  the  required  passes,  engaged 
the  other  beginning  students,  with  regularity ;  but 
even  he  saw  that  he  would  never  be  notably  skil 
ful  with  the  foil  or  rapier  or  broadsword. 
Charles  had  a  delicate  sense  of  touch,  he  bore 
himself  firmly,  his  eye  was  true;  he  had  the  ap 
pearance  of  mastery,  but  the  essence  of  it  was 
not  in  him.  His  heart,  Hormiguero  frequently 
told  him,  was  like  a  sponge;  he  wasn't  tempered 
to  the  commanding  of  death. 

He  agreed,  silently,  that  he  wasn't  a  butcher; 
and  as  for  his  heart — time  would  show  its  ma 
terial.  Meanwhile  he  kept  up  the  waist  and  fore 
arm  exercises,  the  indicated  breathing,  gaining,  if 
not  a  different  spirit,  a  harder  and  cured  body. 
The  room  was  large,  with  the  usual  high  windows\ 
[131] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

on  a  balcony,  and  strips  of  coco-matting  over 
the  tiled  floor.  A  light  wooden  partition  pro 
vided  dressing  space,  the  chairs  were  carried 
about  hither  and  there,  and  the  racks  of  foils 
against  the  walls  reflected  the  brightness  of  day 
in  sudden  long  shivers  like  other  and  immaterial 
blades.  It  had  been,  originally,  a  drawing-room, 
the  cornice  was  elaborate,  and  painted  on  the 
ceiling  were  flying  cupids  and  azure  and  cornu- 
copias  of  spilling  flowers. 

At  moments  of  rest,  his  chest  laboring  and 
arms  limp  at  his  sides,  Charles  Abbott  would 
stare  up  at  the  remote  pastoral  of  love  and  Ve 
nus  and  roses.  Then  the  clamor,  the  wicked 
scrape  of  steel,  the  sharp  breaths,  the  sibilant 
cries  that  accompanied  the  lunges,  would  appear 
wholly  incomprehensible  to  him,  a  business  in  a 
mad-house;  he'd  want  to  tear  the  plastron,  with 
its  scarlet  heart  sewn  high  on  the  left,  from  his 
chest,  and  fling  it,  with  his  gauntlet  and  mask, 
across  the  floor;  he'd  want  to  break  all  the  foils, 
and  banish  Galope  Hormiguero  to  live  among 
the  wild  beasts  he  resembled.  He  was  deep  in 
such  a  mood  when  de  Vaca's  considerate  tones 
roused  him.  "Positively,"  he  said,  "you  are  like 
one  of  the  heroes  who  held  Mexico  on  the  point 
of  his  sword  or  who  swept  the  coast  of  Peru  of 
[132] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

its  gold.  And  you  are  idle,  for  you  see  no  one 
who  can  hold  the  mat  with  you." 

"In  reality,"  Charles  replied,  "I  fence  very 
awkwardly.  But  you  have  often  seen  me,  I 
haven't  any  need  to  tell  you  that." 

"That  can  never  be  established  without  ex 
perience,"  the  Spaniard  asserted;  "I  should  have 
to  feel  your  wrist  against  mine.  If  you  will  be 
patient,  if  you  will  wait  for  me,  I'll  risk  a  public 
humiliation." 

Charles  Abbott  said  evenly:  "I'd  be  very  glad 
to  fence  with  you,  of  course." 

When  de  Vaca,  flawlessly  appointed,  returned, 
Charles  rose  steadily,  and  strapped  on  his  mask, 
tightened  the  leather  of  the  plastron.  A  mur 
mur  of  subdued  amusement  followed  their  walk 
ing  out  together  onto  an  unoccupied  strip — de 
Vaca  was  a  celebrated  swordsman.  Charles  sa 
luted  acceptably,  but  the  wielding  of  the  other's 
gesture  of  courtesy  filled  him  with  admiration. 
The  foils  struck  together,  there  was  a  conven 
tional  pass  and  parry,  and  from  that  moment 
Charles  Abbott  lost  control  of  his  steel.  At  a 
touch  from  de  Vaca,  scarcely  perceptible,  his  foil 
rose  or  fell,  swept  to  one  side  or  the  other;  a 
lunge  would  end  in  the  button  describing  a  whole 
arc,  and  pointing  either  to  the  matting  or  the 
[133] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

winged  and  cherubic  cupids.  The  laughter  from 
the  chairs  grew  louder,  more  unguarded,  and 
then  settled  into  a  constant  stream  of  applause 
and  merriment. 

Disengaged,  he  said  in  tones  which  he  tried  in 
vain  to  make  steady,  "You  have  a  beautiful 
hand." 

De  Vaca,  his  eyes  shining  blackly  through 
wire  mesh,  thanked  him  in  the  politest  language 
known.  He  began,  then,  to  make  points,  touches, 
wherever  he  chose — with  a  remarkably  timed 
twist  he  tore  the  cloth  heart  from  Charles'  wad 
ding;  he  indicated,  as  though  he  were  a  teacher 
with  a  pointer,  anatomical  facts  and  regions;  de 
Vaca  seemed  to  be  calling  Charles'  attention,  by 
sharp  premonitory  taps,  to  what  he  might  have 
been  saying.  There  were  now  a  number  of  voices 
encouraging  and  applauding  him;  he  was  begged 
not  to  be  so  hard  upon  Gaspar ;  and  it  was  hoped 
that  he  was  not  giving  way  to  the  venting  of  a 
secret  spite.  A  nerveless  parry  in  tierce  brought 
out  a  tempestuous  support — 

His  arm  was  as  heavy,  as  numb,  as  lead,  the 
conventional  period  had  been  ignored,  and  his  tor 
ment  went  on  and  on.  His  chest,  he  thought, 
must  burst  under  the  strapped  plastron,  and  sweat 
poured  in  a  sheet  across  his  eyes.  The  episode 
[134] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

seemed  utterly  meaningless,  undemanded;  the 
more  remarkable  because  of  de  Vaca's  indiffer 
ence  to  him,  to  all  the  trivialities  of  his  Cuban 
duty.  How  yellow  the  face  was,  the  eyes  were 
like  jet,  through  the  mask.  Then  Charles  Ab 
bott  grasped  what,  he  was  certain,  was  the  pur 
pose  of  such  an  apparently  disproportionate  at 
tack.  It  was  the  result  of  a  cold  effort,  a  set  de 
termination,  to  destroy  what  courage  he  had.  He 
gazed  quickly  about,  and  saw  nothing  but  Span 
ish  faces;  the  fencing  master  was  in  the  far  end 
of  the  room,  intent  upon  a  sheaf  of  foils.  At  any 
moment  de  Vaca  could  have  disarmed  him,  sent 
his  steel  flying  through  air;  but  that  he  forebore 
to  do.  Instead  he  opposed  his  skill,  his  finesse, 
his  strength,  in  the  attack  upon  Charles  Abbott's 
fibre. 

"If  I  collapse,"  Charles  told  himself,  "it  will 
be  for  eternity." 

Any  sense  of  time  was  disintegrated  in  a  physi 
cal  agony  which  required  all  his  wasting  being  to 
combat.  But,  even  worse  that  that,  far  more 
destructive,  was  the  assault  upon  his  mind.  If 
he  crumbled  ...  he  thought  of  himself  as  dust, 
his  brain  a  dry  powder  in  his  skull.  The  laugh 
ter  around  him,  which  had  seemed  to  retreat  far 
ther  and  farther,  had  ceased,  as  though  it  had 
[135] 


THE  BRIGHT  SHAWL 
been  lost  in  the  distance.  The  room,  widening 
to  an  immensity  of  space,  was  silent,  charged  with 
a  malignant  expectancy.  Soon,  Charles  felt,  he 
would  fall  into  unreckoned  depths  of  corrupt 
shadows,  among  the  obscene  figures  of  the  hide 
ously  lost. 

The  sweat  streaming  into  his  mouth  turned 
thick  and  salt — blood,  from  his  nose.  There  was 
a  tumult  in  his  head:  his  fencing  now  was  the 
mere  waving  of  a  reed.  Again  and  again  the 
Spaniard's  foil,  as  cruelly  and  vitally  direct  as 
at  the  first  pass,  struck  within  Charles'  guard. 
The  face  of  wood,  of  yellow  wood,  the  eyes  that 
were  bits  of  coal,  behind  the  mask,  pursued  him 
into  the  back  of  his  brain.  It  stirred,  there,  a 
smothering  instinct,  a  dormant  memory,  and 
Charles,  with  a  wrenching  effort,  in  a  voice  thin 
like  a  trickle  of  water  from  a  spigot,  said  again, 
" — a  most  beautiful  hand." 

Sharply,  incomprehensibly,  it  was  over. 
Drooping  forward  upon  his  knees,  dropping  his 
foil  from  paralysed  fingers,  he  saw  de  Vaca,  with 
his  mask  on  an  arm,  frowning. 

"Now,"  Charles  Abbott  thought  luxuriously, 
"I  can  faint  and  be  damned  to  them." 

The  cloud  of  darkness  which  flowed  over  him 
was  empty  of  the  vileness  of  fear;  rather,  like  the 
[136] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

beneficence  of  night,  it  was  an  utterly  peaceful 
remission  of  the  flesh. 


His  physical  exhaustion,  the  weariness  of  his 
mind,  continued  in  a  settled  lassitude  through  the 
following  day.  He  was  to  see  Andres  Escobar, 
give  him  what  information  he  had  had  from  La 
Clavel,  the  next  morning  at  the  baths  of  the  Cam 
pos  Eliseos;  and  meanwhile  he  scarcely  stirred 
from  the  San  Felipe.  Charles,  for  the  time, 
lacked  the  bravado  necessary  for  the  sustaining  of 
his  pretence.  His  thoughts,  turned  in  upon  his 
own  acts  and  prospects,  dwelt  quietly  on  his  de 
termination.  He  had  changed  appreciably  during 
his  stay  in  Havana;  even  his  physiognomy  was 
different — how,  he  couldn't  say,  but  he  was  aware 
that  his  expression  had,  well,  hardened.  The 
cure  which  had  been  the  principally  hoped-for 
result  of  Cuba  was  complete.  In  spite  of  his 
collapse  in  the  fencing  school,  he  was  more  com 
pactly  strong  than  ever  before.  It  occurred  to 
him  that,  now,  he  might  be  described  as  a  man. 

This  brought  him  a  certain  pleasure,  and,  in 

keeping  with  that  state,  he  tried  to  simplify,  to 

comprehend,  the  idealism  which  dominated  him. 

He  didn't  want  to  grasp  vainly  at  rosy  clouds. 

[137] 

-wdfcn* 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

His  first  attitude,  one  of  hardly  more  than  boy 
ish  excitement,  had  soon  become  a  deep  imper 
sonal  engagement — he  had  promised  himself  to 
Cuba.  That  will  was  stronger  than  ever;  but 
the  schooling  of  the  past  weeks,  together  with  the 
stiffening  of  his  spirit,  had  bred  a  new  practical 
ity  in  him,  superior,  he  felt,  to  any  sheer  heroics. 
He  vastly  preferred  the  latter,  he  hadn't  totally 
lost  the  inspiring  mental  picture  of  a  glorious 
sacrifice;  but  he  had  come  to  the  realization  that 
it  was  more  important  to  stay  alive.  What,  in 
reality,  he  was  trying  to  do  was  to  see  himself 
consecutively,  logically. 

In  this,  he  recognized,  his  mind  was  differ 
ent  from  the  Escobars',  from  the  blind  fervor  of 
the  many  Cuban  patriots  he  knew.  He  could 
see  that  reflected  in  their  manner  toward  him :  no 
trace  of  Vincente's  aloofness  remained,  they  had 
come,  forgetting  his  comparative  youth,  his  alien 
blood,  to  regard  him  with  almost  an  anxiety  of  re 
spect.  When  it  was  possible,  men  of  the  widest 
possible  activities  talked  to  him  of  their  plans. 
In  short,  Charles  Abbott  felt  that  he  might  be 
come  a  power;  and  this  he  coolly  set  himself  to 
bring  about.  His  heritage  was  that  of  success; 
there  were  distinguished  men,  who  had  carried 
alone  heavy  responsibilities  to  their  justified  end, 
[138] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

no  more  than  two  or  three  generations  behind  him. 
His  mother,  he  thought  gladly,  surveying  her  in 
the  clearness  of  a  full  detachment,  had  an  aston 
ishing  courage  of  spirit.  Charles  told  himself 
that  he  would  have  to  become  a  politician;  his 
undiminished  idealism,  without  which  his  valid 
ity  was  nothing,  must  be  shut  into  his  heart,  held 
purely  for  the  communication  of  its  force  and 
for  his  own  benefit. 

The  simple  path  of  truth,  of  partisan  enthu 
siasm,  must  be  put  aside.  The  uncalculating 
bravery  of  the  men  gathered  about  General  Agra- 
monte  was  of  indispensable  value;  but  undirected, 
with  no  brain  to  make  secure,  to  put  into  opera 
tion,  the  fire  they  created,  that  would  come  to 
little.  He  wished  that  his  connection,  his  duty, 
with  La  Clavel  was  over,  that  he  could  delegate  it 
elsewhere,  but,  obviously,  for  the  moment,  that 
was  impossible.  It  merely  remained  for  him, 
then,  to  take  no  unpondered  chances,  never  again 
to  be  drawn  into  such  a  situation  as  he  had  faced 
with  Gaspar  Arco  de  Vaca. 

Before  such  a  sharp  decision,  a  certain  amount 
of  his  sheer  joy  evaporated:  it  was  less  inspiring 
to  be  cautious  than  daring.  The  Cubans  them 
selves,  always  excepting  Andres,  had  lost  an  ap 
preciable  amount  of  their  glamour  for  him. 
[139] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

They  were,  now,  units,  elements,  to  be  managed, 
to  be  tranquilized,  steadied,  moved  about.  All 
this,  of  course,  was  yet  to  come;  the  recognition 
of  him  was  instinctive  rather  than  acknowledged. 
But,  :he  repeated  to  himself,  it  was  forming, 
spreading.  That,  then,  was  the  shape,  the  ac 
tuality,  of  his  vision — to  establish  himself  indis 
pensably  at  the  fore  of  a  Cuban  liberty,  incipient, 
dreamed  of,  and  accomplished.  All  his  thoughts 
dropped,  almost  with  the  audible  smooth  click 
ing  of  meshed  steel  gears,  into  place.  The  last 
degree  of  joy  was  replaced  by  a  fresh  calm  ma 
turity.  He  would  never,  it  was  obvious,  be  a 
leader  of  soldiers,  and  he  had  no  desire  to  become 
the  visible  head  of  government;  no,  his  intention 
was  other  than  that  of  Carlos  de  Cespedes.  He 
viewed  his  future  self  rather  as  a  powerful  source 
of  advice  with  a  house  on  the  Prado.  It  was 
curious  how  coldly,  exactly,  he  planned  so  much ; 
and  he  stopped  to  examine  his  ambition  even 
more  closely  and  to  discover  if  it  were  merely 
absurd. 

It  struck  him  that  it  might  be  he  had  lost  too 
much,  that  already  he  had  become  selfish,  am 
bitious  for  himself,  and  he  recalled  the  religious 
aspect  so  quickly  gone.  No,  he  decided,  his  ef 
fort  was  to  bridge  that  space,  already  recognized, 
[140] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

between  desire  and  realization.  Anyhow,  he  de 
termined  to  speak  of  this  as  well  to  Andres  dur 
ing  their  bath.  The  April  temporale  lay  in  an 
even  heat  over  the  city,  and  the  end  of  the  Paseo 
Isabel  was  crowded  «by  the  quitrins  of  women,  the 
caleseros,  in  their  brilliant  livery,  sleeping  in 
whatever  shade  offered.  The  Escobars  had  a  pri 
vate  bath,  but  Andres  preferred  the  larger  bafio 
publico,  where  it  was  possible  to  swim,  and  there 
Charles  found  him.  The  basin  had  been  hol 
lowed  from  the  coral  rock;  it  was  perhaps 
eighteen  or  twenty  feet  square,  and  the  height  of 
the  water,  with  a  passage  for  a  fresh  circulation 
cut  in  the  front  wall,  was  level  with  the  calm 
reach  of  the  sea. 

The  pool,  as  clear  as  slightly  congealed  and 
cooled  air,  open  to  the  horizon,  was  roofed,  with 
a  railed  ledge  and  steps  descending  into  the 
water,  and  Andres  Escobar  sat  with  his  legs  half 
immersed.  He  greeted  Charles  conventionally, 
concealing  the  pleasure  which  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"I  stopped  at  your  dressing-room,"  Charles 
Abbott  told  him;  "anything  might  be  taken  from 
the  pockets  of  your  coat." 

The  converse  of  this  possibility,  that  some 
thing  had  been  put  into  a  pocket,  he  conveyed. 
Andres  nodded  indifferently.  The  other  slid 
[141] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

into  the  water,  sinking  and  swimming  beneath 
the  surface  to  the  farther  end.  It  was  delicious. 
Swimming  was  his  only  finished  active  accom 
plishment;  and,  with  a  half  concealed  pride,  he 
exhibited  it  in  skilful  variations.  Even  the  pub 
lic  bath,  he  felt,  was  too  contracted  for  the  full 
expression  of  his  ability.  In  addition  to  this,  it 
was  necessary  to  talk  confidentially  to  Andres. 
And  so,  with  a  wave  of  his  arm,  he  indicated  the 
freedom  of  the  sea  beyond. 

Andres  Escobar  followed  him  over  the  stone 
barrier,  and  together  they  swam  steadily  out  into 
the  blue.  Finally,  they  rested,  floating,  and 
Charles  diffidently  related  what  was  in  his 
heart.  His  friend,  less  secure  in  the  water,  lis 
tened  with  a  gravity  occasionally  marred  by  a 
mouthful  of  sea. 

"You  are  right,"  he  agreed,  when  Charles  had 
finished.  "Although  you  have  put  it  modestly, 
I  think — many  of  us  admit — that  you  may  be  a 
strong  man  in  Cuba.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  it 
said  that  you  should  go  back  to  America,  and 
put  more  intensity  into  the  Junta.  Naturally  I 
should  regret  that,  but  we  must  all  do  what,  in 
the  end,  is  best.  Charles,  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  water  under  and  around  us,  and  I  should  feel 
better  nearer  the  Campos  Eliseos." 
[142] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

"Wait,"  Charles  Abbott  replied  with  a  touch 
of  impatience;  "you  are  quite  safe,  there  is  no 
tide  at  present."  Floating  in  the  calm  immen 
sity,  his  arms  outspread,  his  face,  at  once  burned 
by  the  sun  and  lapped  by  water,  turned  to  the 
opposed  azure  above,  he  drew  in  accession  after 
accession  of  a  determination  like  peace.  Noth 
ing  should  upset  what  he  had  planned.  There 
was  a  stir  beside  him — Andre  Escobar  was  re 
turning  to  the  shore,  and  lazily,  thoughtfully,  he 
swam  back.  The  Cuban  left  immediately,  for 
breakfast;  but  Charles  lingered  in  the  pool, 
lounging  upon  the  wooden  grilling  with  a  cig 
arette.  One  by  one  the  bathers  went  away.  The 
sky,  the  sea,  were  a  blaze  of  blue.  The  clatter 
of  hoofs,  the  caleseros'  departing  cries,  sounded 
from  the  Paseo.  "Charles  Abbott,"  he  repeated 
his  own  name  aloud  with  an  accent  of  surprise. 
What,  whom,  did  it  describe?  He  gazed  down 
over  his  drying  body.  This,  then,  was  he — the 
two  legs,  thin  but  sufficiently  muscular,  the  trunk 
in  a  swimming  suit,  the  arms  and  hands!  His 
hidden  brain,  his  invisible  mind,  was  himself  as 
well ;  and,  of  the  two,  the  mind  and  the  body,  the 
unseen  was  overwhelmingly  the  more  important. 
He  remembered  how,  fencing  with  de  Vaca,  the 
body  had  failed  him  utterly;  de  Vaca,  attacking 
[143] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

his  will,  was  contemptuous  of  the  other  .  .  .  and 
his  will  had  survived.  Rising,  he  felt  that  he 
commanded  himself  absolutely;  he  had  no  sym 
pathy,  no  patience,  for  frailty,  for  a  failure 
through  the  celebrated  weaknesses  of  humanity: 
hardness  was  the  indispensable  trait  of  suc 
cess. 


The  whole  of  reasonably  intelligent  life, 
Charles  discovered,  was  disrupted  by  the  ceaseless 
clash  of  two  utterly  opposed  ideas,  emotions. 
There  was,  first,  the  need  in  the  individual  to 
serve,  to  justify,  himself,  to  maintain  his  integ 
rity;  and,  as  well,  there  was  the  duty  —  at  least,  it 
was  universally  called  a  duty  —  of  a  self-sacrifice 
for  love.  The  failures  of  superior  men  came 
largely,  he  was  certain,  in  the  breaking  down  of 
the  first  through  the  second.  A  man,  for  example, 
put  into  motion  the  accomplishment  of  his  own 
demand,  and  then  was  appalled  by  the  incidental 
price,  but  more  to  others  than  to  himself.  Yes, 
love  betrayed  men.  The  Escobars  were,  insep 
arably,  Cuba,  they  were  happily  merged,  lost, 
in  one  supreme  cause  ;  yet  the  superiority  of  their 
hearts  over  the  head  endangered  their  dearest  pre 
occupation.  They  saw  symbols  as  realities,  they 
[144] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

wrongly  valued  emotion  more  highly  than  reas 
oning. 

And  further,  Charles  returned  to  himself,  if 
he  had  consulted  and  listened  to  his  parents,  if 
his  love  of  home  had  outweighed  his  singular 
vision,  he  would  be  nothing  now  but  an  unimpor 
tant  drifting  figure.  His  parents  had  had  more 
knowledge  of  life  than  he;  undoubtedly  their 
counsel,  in  the  main,  was  correct,  safe.  That 
word,  safe,  was  it  specially.  The  instinct  of  his 
mother  was  to  preserve,  to  spare,  him;  to  win  for 
him  as  smooth  a  passage  through  life  as  was  pro 
curable.  She  had  her  particular  feminine  idea 
of  what,  in  her  son,  spelled  solid  accomplishment ; 
and,  with  all  her  spirit,  it  was  material  in  so  far 
as  it  was  visible:  position  in  a  settled  commun 
ity,  the  money  necessary  for  an  existence  both 
dignified  and  ornamental,  a  "nice"  wife — an 
other  devoted  sheltering  soul  such  as  herself — 
and  well-behaved  handsome  children.  The  in 
ner  qualities  she  demanded  for  him  were  faith, 
honesty,  and  fidelity. 

Her  vision  of  a  broad  close-cut  lawn  and  grey 
stone  house  with  pillars  and  a  port-cochere,  his 
wife,  in  silks  and  chaste  jewels,  receiving  a  po 
lite  company  in  the  drawing-room,  was  admir 
able.  In  it  he  would  be  gray-haired  and,  to- 
[145] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

gather  with  an  increasing  stoutness,  of  an  assured 
dignity.  His  children  would  worship  his  wis 
dom  and  paternal  benevolence,  and  the  world  of 
affairs  would  listen  to  him  with  attentive  re 
spect.  It  was,  unquestionably,  an  impressive 
conception.  Every  detail  was  excellent,  but  he 
cared  for,  revered,  none  of  them. 

He  didn't  want  to  be  safe,  to  decline  softly  to 
a  soft  old  age,  a  death  smothered  in  feathers. 
More  than  anything  else  his  desire  was*  to  live 
intensely,  to  ride,  upright,  the  crest  of  a  thunder 
ous  wave.  He  hated,  now,  every  phase  of  a  de 
cent  suburban  smugness.  Someone  else  was 
welcome  to  the  girl  designated,  by  his  mother,  to 
be  his  wife.  Someone  other  than  himself  might 
sit  across  the  dinner-table  from  her,  week  after 
week,  month  after  month,  year  after  year,  and 
watch  her  stereotyped  face  beyond  the  cut  flowers ; 
another  might  listen  to  the  interminable  gabble 
about  servants  and  neighbors  and  dresses  and 
cards.  The  children  would  be  differently,  more 
appropriately,  fathered;  his,  Charles  Abbott's, 
potential  children  were  gathered  into  an  ideal 
that  was,  too,  an  idea.  It  must  be  served,  real 
ized,  within  the  dimensions  of  his  own  bone  and 
fibre;  it  was  exclusively  his,  his  the  danger,  the 
penalty  and  the  reward.  Charles  would  not  have 
[146] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

had  it  different,  even  if,  although  none  existed, 
he  had  any  choice. 

He  must,  however,  prepare  himself  against  the 
betrayal  he  was  able  to  trace  so  clearly  in  others ; 
there  could  be  no  faltering,  no  remorse;  he  was 
cut  off  from  the  ordinary  solaces,  the  comfortable 
compactness,  of  general  living.  But,  already, 
temperamentally,  he  liked,  preferred,  this;  alone, 
never  for  a  minute  was  he  lonely.  The  inat 
tention  to  home,  primarily  the  result  of  a  new 
scene  and  of  exciting  circumstances,  had  grown 
into  an  impersonal  fondness  for  his  family;  he 
failed  to  miss  them,  to  wish  for  their  presence. 
The  only  element  that  remained  from  the  past 
was  his  love  for  Andres  Escobar;  he  confronted 
it  valorously,  deposed  it  from  his  mind,  but  it 
clung  around  his  heart.  How  fortunate  it  was 
that  Andres  could  not  detach  him  from  his  re 
solve;  it  was  unthinkable  that  one  should  stand 
in  the  way  of  the  other. 

These  reflections  occupied  his  mind  at  various 
times  and  places:  one  day  in  the  American  Con 
sulate  on  Obispo  Street;  again  at  the  steamship 
office  on  Mercaderes;  over  his  cigarette  and 
cheese  and  jelly  at  the  Noble  Havana;  strolling 
along  Ricla  Street  where  the  principal  shops  were 
congregated;  at  a  dinner  party  in  the  Palace  of 
[147] 


THE  BRIGHT  SHAWL 
the  Conde  de  Santovernia.  He  was  aloof.  All 
the  activity  that  absorbed  the  people  among 
whom  he  went  was  to  him  trivial,  utterly  of  no 
consequence.  Sometimes  he  would  walk  through 
the  stalls  of  the  Mercado  de  Cristina,  on  the 
Plaza  Vieja,  or  in  through  the  Honradez  factory 
on  Sol  Street,  where  a  handful  of  cigars  was 
courteously  given  to  any  appreciative  visitor. 
He  would  return  along  the  Paseo  de  Valdez  to 
the  park  where  he  had  sat  when  he  was  first  in 
Cuba,  and,  as  then,  the  strains  of  the  military 
band  of  the  Cabanas  drifted  across  the  bay. 

The  dwelling  of  the  Captain-General,  with  the 
Royal  Lottery  on  the  ground  floor,  had  before  it 
sentries  in  red  and  white;  the  Quay  de  Caballe- 
ria,  reached  through  the  Plaza  of  San  Francisco, 
was  tempered  and  pleasant  in  the  early  dusk,  and 
at  the  Quay  de  Machina  was  a  small  garden 
with  grotesque  rosy  flamingoes  and  gold-fish  in 
the  fountain.  He  sat,  as  well,  lonely,  consider 
ing  and  content,  in  the  Alameda  de  Paula,  where, 
by  the  glorieta,  it  was  called  the  Salon  O'Don- 
nell.  The  moats,  filled  with  earth,  truck  gardens, 
the  shore  covered  with  sugar  pans,  engaged  his 
absent-minded  interest.  With  the  improvement 
of  his  Spanish,  he  deserted  the  better  known 
cafes  and  restaurants,  the  insolence  of  the  Cas- 
[148] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

tilian  officers,  for  modest  Cuban  places  of  food, 
where  he  drank  Catalan  wine,  and  smoked  the 
Vegueros,  the  rough  excellent  plantation  cigars. 

This  new  mood,  he  was  relieved  to  find,  gave 
his  acquaintances  as  much  amusement  as  his  pub 
lic  dissipation — it  was  ascribed  to  the  predicted 
collapse  of  his  love  affair  with  La  Clavel.  She 
was,  he  was  rallied,  growing  tired  of  his  atten 
tions;  and,  in  the  United  States  Club,  he  was  re 
quested  not  to  drown  himself,  because  of  the 
trouble  it  would  cause  his  country.  Captain 
Santacilla,  however,  studied  him  with  a  growing 
ill-humor;  his  peculiar  threats  and  small  bru 
talities  had  stopped,  but  his  temper,  Charles  rec 
ognized,  was  becoming  dangerous.  He  declared 
frankly,  in  the  Cafe  Dominica,  that  Charles 
wasn't  the  fool  he  appeared,  and  he  repeated  his 
assertions  of  the  need  for  a  deportation  or  worse. 

This  was  a  condition  which,  sooner  or  later, 
must  be  met,  and  for  which  Charles  prepared 
himself.  Both  Cubans  and  Spaniards  occasion 
ally  disappeared  forever — the  former  summarily 
shot  by  a  file  of  muskets  in  a  fosse,  and  the  latter, 
straying  in  the  anonymous  paths  of  dissipation, 
quieted  by  a  patriotic  or  vindictive  knife.  This, 
it  seemed  to  Charles  Abbott,  would  be  the  wisest 
plan  with  Santacilla;  and  he  had  another  strange 
[149] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

view  of  himself  considering  and  plotting  a  mur 
der.  The  officer,  who  had  an  extraordinary 
sense  of  intangible  surrounding  feelings  and  pres 
sures,  spoke  again  to  Charles  of  the  efforts  to 
dispose  of  him. 

"The  man  doesn't  draw  breath  who  will  do 
it,"  he  proclaimed  to  Charles,  at  the  entrance  to 
the  Valla  de  Gallo.  "It's  a  superstition,  but  I'd 
back  it  with  my  last  onza  of  gold.  I've  seen  it 
in  you  very  lately,  but  give  it  up.  Or  don't  give 
it  up.  Either  way  you  are  unimportant.  I  can't 
understand  why  you  are  still  here,  why  I  permit 
you  to  live.  If  I  remember  it  I'll  speak  to  my 
sergeant,  Javier  Gua:  he  performs  such  an  er 
rand  to  a  nicety.  I  have  taken  a  dislike  to  you, 
very  unreasonably,  for  you  are  no  more  than  a 
camarone.  I  believe,  for  all  your  appearance  of 
money,  that  La  Clavel  supports  you;  it  is  her 
doblons,  I  am  certain,  you  gamble  away  and 
spend  for  food." 

Charles  Abbott  smiled  at  the  insult: 
"On  one  hand  I  hear  that  she  has  thrown  me 
over  and  then  you  say  that  she  supports  !me. 
Which,    I    wonder,    is    to    be    preferred?     But 
neither,  fortunately,  is  true.     I  can  still  buy  her 
a  bouquet  of  camellias  and  she  will  still  wear  it. 
As  for  the  money,  I  never  lose  at  gambling,  San- 
[150] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

tacilla,  I  am  always  successful;  the  cards  are  in 
my  favor.  If  I  bet  on  the  black,  it  turns  up;1 
and  when  I  choose  the  red,  affairs  are  red." 

Santacilla's  uneasy  eyes  shifted  over  him  sus 
piciously.  "Blood  and  death,  that  is  what  black 
and  red  are,"  he  said.  "But  you  are  not  the  dis 
penser  of  fate."  The  peak  of  his  cockaded  hat 
threw  a  shadow  over  his  sanguine  face  to  the 
chin.  "A  camarone,"  he  repeated,  "a  stalk  of 
celery.  Gua,  and  I'll  remember  to  tell  him,  will 
part  you  from  your  conceit."  There  was  a  metal 
lic  crowing  of  roosters  as  the  officer  turned  away. 


La  Clavel  noticed  a  marked  difference  in 
Charles,  but  proclaimed  that  it  was  no  more  than 
an  increase  in  his  natural  propensity  for  high- 
mindedness.  It  fatigued  her,  she  declared,  to  be 
with  him,  made  her  dizzy  to  gaze  up  at  his  altitude 
of  mind.  He  was  seated  in  her  room,  the  hair 
dresser  was  sweating  in  the  attempt  to  produce  an 
effect  she  was  describing  to  him  with  phrases  as 
stinging  as  the  whip  of  foils,  while  Charles 
watched  her  with  a  degree  of  annoyance.  Her 
humors,  where  he  was  concerned,  were  unpre 
dictable;  and  lately  she  had  found  a  special 
[151] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

delight  in  attacks  on  his  dignity.  She  said  and 
did  things — an  air  of  innocence  hiding  her  malice 
— indecently  ribald  that  shook  his  firmest  efforts 
to  appear,  to  be,  unconcerned. 

At  last,  in  a  volatile  rage,  she  dismissed  the 
servant  with  his  tongs  and  pomatum  and  crimp 
ing  leads,  and  swore  to  Charles  Abbott  that  she 
was  going  to  the  Argentine  by  the  first  boat  that 
offered  passage. 

"I  am  sick  of  Cuba,  and  I've  forgotten  that  I 
am  an  artist,  and  that  is  bad.  You  are  wrapped 
up  in  this  liberty,  and  that  is  very  well  for  you, 
an  ordinary  person.  You  must  have  something 
like  that,  outside  you,  to  follow,  for  you've  very 
little  within.  But  me,  I  am  not  an  ordinary  per 
son;  I  am  La  Clavel.  I  am  more  valuable  to 
the  world  than  pumpkins  or  republics.  I  stamp 
my  heel,"  she  stamped  her  heel,  a  clear  sharp 
sound,  and  her  body  swept  into  a  line  passionate 
and  tense,  "and  I  create  a  people,  a  history."  La 
Clavel  secured  the  castanets  lying  on  her  dress 
ing-table — in  answer  to  their  irritable  rhythmic 
clinking  she  projected,  for  an  instant,  a  vision  of 
all  desire. 

"I  can  make  men  forget;  I  can  draw  them  out 
of  their  sorrows  and  away  from  their  homes;  I 
can  put  fever  in  their  blood  that  will  blind  them 
[152] 


THE  BRIGHT  SHAWL 
to  memories  and  duty.  Or  I  can  be  a  drum,  and 
lead  them  out,  without  a  regret,  a  fear,  to  death. 
That  is  more  than  a  naranjada  or  a  cigar  or  an 
election.  And,  because  of  what  I  have  given  you, 
I  have  put  that  out  of  my  life;  I  have  been  living 
like  the  mistress  of  a  bodega.  To  be  clear, 
Charles,  I  am  tired  of  you  and  Cuba,  and  I  have 
satisfied  my  hatred  of  the  officers  with  cologne  on 
their  handkerchiefs." 

"I  understand  that  perfectly,"  Charles  Abbott 
assured  her;  "and  I  cannot  beg  you  to  stay. 
Whatever  your  motive  was,  your  value  to  us  has 
been  beyond  any  payment.  If  our  movement 
had  a  saint,  you  would  fill  that  place." 

She  laughed,  "A  strange  saint  in  a  manton 
and  slippers  with  painted  heels." 

"Much  better,  Charles  replied,  "than  many  of 
those  in  sanctified  robes.  I  had  the  feeling,  too," 
he  proceeded,  "that  our  usefulness  together  was 
coming  to  an  en  V  It  seemed  to  him  that  again 
she  had  become  /^e  glorified  figure  of  the  stage, 
his  dislike  for  her  actuality,  her  flesh,  vanished, 
leaving  only  profound  admiration. 

"I  am  amazed,"  she  said,  in  a  lingering  half 
humorous  resentment,  "that  you  never  loved  me, 
I  never  brought  you  a  regret  or  a  longing  or  made 
any  trouble  in  your  heart." 
[153] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

"That  was  because  I  put  you  so  high,"  he  ex 
plained.  She  raised  her  shoulders  and  objected 
that  it  was  late  for  compliments. 

"Be  honest — you  didn't  care  for  me.  You 
ought  to  be  very  successful,  you  have  things  sur 
prising  in  the  so  young.  Will  you/'  she  de 
manded  suddenly,  totally  changing  the  subject, 
"be  my  maid?"  He  hastened  to  inform  her, 
vehemently,  that  he  would  not.  "Jobaba  hasn't 
come  today,"  La  Clavel  continued;  "and  she 
wasn't  here  to  dress  me  for  dinner  last  evening. 
That  is  unusual  in  her:  I  have  a  feeling  she  is 
not  coming  back." 

"Perhaps  she  has  been  murdered  in  one  of  the 
brujos  cabildos,"  Charles  suggested.  "It  is  im 
possible  to  say  where  that  frenzy  stops."  A 
happening  quite  different,  the  dancer  told  him, 
was  in  her  mind. 

"I  could  never  get  into  the  thoughts  of 
Jobaba,"  she  admitted.  "And  there  is  very  little 
I  miss.  I  suppose  it's  the  negro.  She  is  like 
cream,  smooth  and  beautiful  to  look  at,  but 
turned  by  thunder."  If  she  were  going  away, 
Charles  reminded  her,  there  were  a  number  of 
things  to  be  discussed  and  closed.  And  she  told 
Charles  how  a  Cuban,  ostensibly  attached  to  the 
national  party,  but  in  reality  a  Spanish  secret 
[154] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

agent,  had  been  sent  into  Camagiiey.  His  name 
was  Rimblas. 

Charles  Abbott  repeated  that,  and  memorized 
such  characteristics  as  La  Clavel  knew.  There 
was  an  indefinite  stir  at  the  door,  a  short  knock, 
and  he  moved  to  the  window  as  Santacilla  entered 
unceremoniously. 

The  Spaniard  was  a  model  of  politeness,  of 
consideration,  and  he  listened,  seated  with  his 
hands  folded  about  the  head  of  his  officer's  cane, 
to  La  Clavel's  determination  to  go  to  South 
America.  It  was  an  excellent  plan,  he  agreed; 
they  would  welcome  her  rapturously  in  Buenos 
Aires ;  but  hadn't  she  put  off  her  intention  a  little 
too  long?  It  was  on  account  of  the  climate,  the 
season,  he  hastened  to  add.  Although,  of  course, 
they  would  open  the  opera  house  for  her, 
the  smart  world  would  come  in  from  their  es- 
tancias. 

"But  what  will  our  young  American  do?"  he 
demanded.  "How  will  he  live  without  his  de 
light?  But  perhaps  he  is  going  to  the  Argentine 
with  you.  He  will  have  a  busy  time,  and  a  hat 
ful  of  challenges  there,  where  beauty  is  appre 
ciated  to  the  full." 

Charles  said,  with  an  appearance  of  sullen- 
ness,  that  he  hadn't  been  invited  to  go  farther 
[155] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

south;  and  Santacilla  replied  that,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  might  be  necessary  for  him  to  remain,  per 
haps  forever,  in  Havana.  He  spoke  cheerfully, 
gazing  amiably  upon  them,  but  a  vague  quality 
of  his  bearing,  his  voice,  was  disturbing,  mocking. 
His  words  had  the  air  of  an  underlying  meaning 
different  from  their  sound.  An  uneasiness, 
as  well,  was  communicated  to  La  Clavel: 
she  watched  Santacilla  with  an  indirect  puzzled 
gaze. 

"Jobaba  has  gone,"  she  announced  abruptly. 

The  trace  of  a  smile  hovered  about  the  officer's 
expression  of  regret.  "A  personable  clip  of  hell," 
was  his  opinion  of  the  strayed  maid.  "Do  you 
remember  the  major  who  composed  music?"  he 
addressed  La  Clavel.  "Well,  he  was  always  a 
little  touched  in  the  brain,  and  he  caught  this 
negro  hysteria,  he  became  a  brujos.  He'd  come 
home  in  the  morning  with  his  body  marked  in 
yellow  chalk,  and  wrung  out  like  a  boatman's 
sponge;  and  he  let  drop  a  fact  or  two  about  your 
Jobaba  screaming  to  an  African  drum  rubbed 
with  the  fingers.  In  that  state,  he  said,  a  great 
deal  that  was  curious  and  valuable  could  be 
dragged  from  her.  We  encouraged  his  madness, 
at  the  Cabanas,  for  what  it  brought  us.  But  it 
was  unfortunate  for  him — he  ties  bright  rags 
[156] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

about  his  ankles  and  mumbles,  when  he  thinks 
he  is  alone." 

Charles  Abbott's  mind,  sifting  all  that  the  other 
said,  was  abnormally  active,  sharp.  Something, 
he  couldn't  quite  grasp  what,  was  acutely,  threat 
eningly,  wrong.  He  had  a  sense  of  impending 
danger,  a  premonition  of  clashing  sound,  of  dis 
cord.  And,  whatever  developed,  he  must  meet 
it,  subdue  and  conquer  it.  Ceaza  y  Santacilla, 
he  saw,  was  not  visibly  armed ;  but,  probably,  he 
would  carry  a  small  pistol.  The  one  his  father 
had  given  him  was  in  Charles'  pocket.  The  diffi 
culty  was  that,  in  the  event  of  a  disturbance,  no 
matter  what  the  outcome  here  might  happen  to 
be,  the  dancer  and  he  would  bear  the  weight  of 
any  Spanish  fury.  And  it  was  no  part  of  his 
intention  to  be  cut  in  half  by  bullets  behind  a 
fortress  wall. 

He  could  only  delay,  discover  as  soon  as  pos 
sible  what  was  behind  Santacilla's  deceiving  pa 
tience  and  good  humor.  Upon  that  he  would 
have  to  act  without  hesitation  and  with  no  chance 
of  failure.  The  regiment  should,  the  dancer  com 
plained,  send  her  maid  back  to  her.  Manners 
were  very  much  corrupted  beyond  the  western 
ocean — in  Sevilla  the  servant  would  have  been 
dispatched  in  a  bullock  cart  deep  in  roses.  That, 
[157] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

he  answered,  reminded  him  of  another  proces 
sion,  a  different  cart;  but  it  was  more  French 
than  Castilian — the  tumbril. 

He  was  seated  against  a  wall  at  a  right  angle 
from  the  door,  and  Charles  left  the  vicinity  of  the 
window,  lounging  across  the  room.  La  Clavel 
said,  "I  know  you  so  well,  Ceaza,  what  is  it; 
what  is  it  you  are  saying  and  saying  without 
speaking  of?  Your  mind  is  like  a  locked  metal 
box  that  shows  only  the  flashes  on  the  surface. 
But  you  must  open  it  for  us.  It  seems  as  though 
you  were  threatening  me,  and  that,  you  best 
should  realize,  is  useless." 

His  flickering  eyes  rested  first  on  her  and  then 
upon  Charles  Abbott.  "You  will  never  get  to 
South  America  now,"  he  asserted;  "for  you  are 
a  conspirator  against  your  King.  Since  you 
have  shown  such  a  love  of  Cuban  soil  you  are  to 
become  a  part  of  it  forever." 


Charles  Abbott,  now  standing  by  the  door,  shot 
in  the  bolt  which  secured  it,  and,  by  a  fortunate, 
a  chance,  twist,  broke  off  the  handle.  Santacilla, 
undisturbed,  remained  seated,  smiling  while  his 
fingers  played  with  the  plaited  loop  of  his  cane. 
[158] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

"This  infatuation,"  he  indicated  them  with  a 
wave,  "while  it  convinced  Havana,  never  en 
tirely  satisfied  me.  I  have  been  watching  you, 
Jobaba  has  been  listening,  for  days.  You  were 
very  cunning,  but,  in  the  end,  you  failed;  you 
were  neither  skilful  nor  patient  enough.  Yet, 
at  the  last,  all  that  you  heard  were  fairy  tales — 
the  spy  that  was  sent  to  Camaguey,  ha! " 

La  Clavel  faced  him  calmly,  but,  Charles  saw, 
she  was  pale.  He  was  revolving  a  hundred  im 
practical  schemes:  they  had  .only  one  end,  the 
death  of  Santacilla,  but  how  that  was  to  be 
brought  about  with  safety  to  Cuba  evaded  him. 

"I  am  not  a  traitor  in  the  way  you  mean,"  she 
declared;  "what  your  conceit  never  allowed  you 
to  note  was  that,  in  Spain  and  here,  I  have  al 
ways  detested  you;  and  what  I  did  was  the  re 
sult  of  that.  I  struck  at  you  and  not  at  our 
country,  for  the  court  and  church  and  army  are 
no  longer  our  strength — if  we  still  have  any  ex 
cept  the  knife  and  cord — but  our  weakness. 

"Fools," 'he  asserted,  unmoved. 

"And  now  you  are  the  fool,"  she  added. 

"No,  you  are  wrong;  I  am  only  enjoying  my 
self  before  the  show  is  over.  I  wanted  to  see 
you,  and  your  young  devotee,  twist  and  turn 
before  the  fact  of  death.  I  have  killed,  and  seen 
[159] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

executed,  a  number  of  people,  men  and  women; 
but  I  was  still  curious — a  great  dancer  and  a 
rich  young  American.  That  is  an  unusual  day." 

It  was  best,  Charles  Abbott  decided,  to  bring 
about  as  much  as  possible  with  no  more  delay; 
the  prime  necessary  act  accomplished,  they  could 
face  the  problems  of  the  immediate  future  stead 
ily.  He  quietly  produced  his  pistol  and  levelled 
it.  The  dry  click  which  alone  followed  the  pull 
ing  of  the  trigger  made  the  officer  aware  of  the 
attempt  upon  his  life.  A  dark  angry  surge  in 
vaded  his  face,  and  then  receded.  "No  man  will 
ever  kill  me,"  he  repeated.  "It  is  my  star."  A 
hand  left  the  cane  and  produced  a  small  gold 
whistle. 

Charles  stared  dully  at  the  useless  weapon, 
with  its  mounting  of  mother-of-pearl,  which  he 
still  held. 

"The  cartridges  have  been  too  long  in  their 
barrels,"  Santacilla  explained;  "they  have  dried 
and  shifted.  You  should  have  greased  them 
every  week." 

La  Clavel  stood,  lost  in  thought,  like  a 
woman  in  a  dream.  Her  hair,  over  which  she 
had  spent  such  time  and  curses,  was  an  elaborate 
silhouette  against  the  light.  "Ceaza,  Ceaza,"  she 
implored,  going  to  him,  "you  must  let  me  go 
[160] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

and  dance  in  Buenos  Aires,  they  have  never  seen 
me  there,  it  is  necessary  to  my  career."  She  was 
close  beside  him,  when  he  rose  suddenly,  pushing 
the  chair  between  them. 

"You  Andalusian  devil!"  he  cried,  and  put 
the  whistle  to  his  lips.  Before  he  could  blow, 
the  dancer  had  flung  herself  on  him,  with  an  arm 
bound  about  his  neck,  a  hand  dragging  at  his 
throat.  The  whistle  fell,  the  chair  was  brushed 
aside,  and  the  man  and  woman,  in  a  straining 
desperate  grip,  swayed  into  the  middle  of  the 
floor. 

Charles,  driven  by  an  inherited  instinct  to  pro 
tect  La  Clavel,  to  replace  her  in  such  a  struggle, 
caught  at  either  of  the  locked  shoulders;  but, 
whirling  in  the  passion  of  their  strife,  they  struck 
him  aside.  He  made  another  effort  to  pull  San- 
tacilla  to  the  floor,  without  success;  and  then, 
with  a  small  stout  chair  in  his  hands,  he  waited 
for  an  opportunity  to  bring  it  crashing  on  the 
officer's  head.  He  was  appalled  by  the  fury  of 
the  woman  silently  trying  to  choke  her  enemy; 
her  other  hand,  grasping  the  thin  glimmer  of  the 
knife  always  convenient  in  her  stocking,  the 
officer  held  away  from  them.  Her  years  of  danc 
ing,  her  early  hardening  life  in  the  mountains, 
had  given  her  a  strength  and  litheness  now  tear- 
[161] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

ing  at  the  weight,  the  masculinity,  of  Santacilla. 
He  was  trying,  in  vain,  to  break  her  wrist,  to 
close  his  fingers  into  her  throat;  and,  bending, 
the  fragility  of  her  clothes  ripped  across  her 
sinuous  back.  Shifting  and  evading  the  thrust  of 
his  power,  she  was  sending  the  blood  in  purple 
waves  over  his  neck  and  thick  cheeks.  Neither 
of  them  cried  out,  spoke;  there  was  only  the 
sound  of  hoarse  breathing,  inarticulate  expres 
sions  of  unendurable  strain.  Charles  Abbott, 
raising,  holding  poised,  the  chair,  and  lowering  it, 
was  choked  with  the  grappling  horror  before  him. 

La  Clavel's  face  was  as  blanched  as  the  officer's 
was  dark,  her  eyes  were  wide-open  and  set,  as 
though  she  were  in  a  galvanic  trance.  Again 
and  again  Santacilla  tried  to  tear  away  her  arms, 
to  release  himself  from  the  constriction  at  his 
neck.  His  fingers  dug  red  furrows  through  her 
flesh,  they  tormented  and  outraged  her.  A  palm 
closed  upon  her  countenance,  and  blood  ran 
from  under  it.  But  there  was  no  weakening  of 
her  force,  no  slackening  in  her  superb  body. 
She  seemed  curiously  impersonal;  robbed  of  all 
traits  of  women;  she  was  like  a  symbolical  fate, 
the  figure  from  a  shield,  from  an  emblem,  drag 
ging  him  to  death. 

Then,  suddenly,  in  an  inadequate  muffled 
[162] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

voice  burdened  with  a  shuddering  echo  of  fear,  he 
cried  for  her  to  release  him.  It  was  so  unex 
pected,  he  became  so  inexplicably  limp,  that  La 
Clavel  backed  away  instinctively.  Charles 
started  forward,  the  chair  lifted  high ;  but  he  was 
stopped  by  the  expression,  the  color,  of  Ceazy 
Santacilla's  face.  The  officer  turned,  with  his 
hands  at  his  throat,  toward  the  window.  He 
took  an  uncertain  step,  and  then  stood  wavering, 
strangely  helpless,  pathetically  stricken. 

"The  air/'  he  whispered;  "hot  as  wine."  He 
pitched  abruptly  face  forward  upon  the  floor. 

La  Clavel  tried  to  speak  against  the  labored 
heaving  of  her  breast,  but  what  she  attempted  to 
say  was  unintelligible.  Charles,  slipping  back 
the  broken  bolt  with  a  finger  in  its  orifice,  lis 
tened  intently  at  the  door.  The  Hotel  St.  Louis 
was  wrapped  undisturbed  in  its  siesta;  no  alarm 
had  been  created.  Santacilla  lay  as  he  had 
fallen,  an  arm  loosely  outspread,  a  leg  doubled 
unnaturally  under  its  fellow.  He  bore  the  lax- 
ness,  the  emptiness,  of  death.  He  had  spoken 
truly  that  it  wasn't  in  his  star  to  be  killed  by  a 
man.  Finding  that  he  was  still  holding  the 
chair,  Charles  put  it  softly  down.  "Well,"  he 
said,  "the  revolution  is  through  with  him." 

He  glanced  suddenly  at  La  Clavel.     She  was 
[163] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

drooping,  disheveled  and  hideous;  her  hair  lay 
on  her  bare  shoulders  in  coarse  strands;  her  face 
was  swollen  with  bruises.  Now,  he  realized,  she 
would  never  see  the  Argentine;  she  would  never 
again  hear  the  shouted  oles  that  greeted,  re 
warded,  the  brilliancy  of  her  jcta.  His  thoughts 
shifted  to  Cuba  and  himself — if  it  were  a  crime 
of  passion  that  had  been  committed  in  her  room, 
the  cause,  there,  would  be  freed  from  suspicion. 
He  had,  as  customary,  come  directly,  unosten 
tatiously,  to  her  room,  and  he  was  certain  that  he 
had  not  been  observed.  A  duty,  hard  in  the  ex 
treme,  was  before  him. 

"Why  did  you  bring  about  Santacilla's 
death?"  he  demanded.  She  gazed  at  him  dully, 
uncomprehendingly.  "It  was  because  he  was 
jealous,"  he  proceeded;  "you  must  hold  to  that." 
She  nodded,  dazed.  "When  they  come  into 
the  room  and  find  him  you  must  show  what  he 
did  to  you.  And,  after  all,  you  didn't  kill  him. 
Perhaps  that  will  save  you,"  his  voice  was  with 
out  conviction.  "They  won't  believe  you,  and 
they  may  try  measures  to  get  at  the  truth;  but 
you  will  be  faithful.  You  will  keep  your  secret, 
and — and  I  must  go.  I  shall  ask  for  you  down 
stairs,  make  them  send  up  a  servant,  and  shout 
as  loudly  as  any." 

[164] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

She  held  up  her  battered  countenance  dumbly 
and,  with  a  feeling  of  transcendent  reverence,  he 
kissed  her  cut  lips.  Thrown  across  the  end  of 
the  bed,  the  shawl  she  had  danced  in,  blazing 
with  gay  color,  cast  the  reflection  of  its  carmines 
and  yellows  on  the  calcimined  wall.  It  was  like 
a  burst  of  the  music  which  accompanied  her 
dancing.  The  castanets  lay  on  the  floor.  The 
blessed  saint  of  Cuban  independence!  Then 
the  caution  that  had  become  a  part  of  his  neces 
sity  rode  uppermost:  he  proceeded  silently  to  the 
door,  and,  closing  it  behind  him,  went,  meeting 
no  one,  to  the  ground  floor,  where  he  pulled  ir 
ritably  at  the  wire  hanging  from  a  bell  under  the 
ceiling.  The  raw  jangle  brought  a  servant,  a 
rosy-cheeked  Gallego  boy,  heavy  with  sleep,  who 
went  stumbling  up  the  stairs  on  Charles'  errand. 


In  his  own  room  a  wave  of  physical  horror 
swept  over  Charles  Abbott;  he  was  obliged  to 
sit  down,  and  the  chair,  the  floor,  seemed  to 
rock  at  the  giddy  sickness  of  the  memory  of  San- 
tacilla,  stumbling  with  a  wine-colored  face  to 
ward  the  window  in  a  vain  gasping  for  air,  for 
life.  He  recovered  slowly:  notwithstanding  the 
[165] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

death  of  Tirso  Labrador,  the  wasted  shape  of 
Andres'  brother,  all  the  tragedies  he  had  heard 
reported,  it  was  not  until  now  that  he  realized 
the  entire  grimness  of  the  undertaking  against 
Spain.  The  last  possibility  of  the  spectacular 
departed,  leaving  him  with  a  new  sense  of  the 
imminence  of  death.  He  had  considered  this, 
under  certain  circumstances  welcoming  it,  or  dis 
missing  it  with  a  creditable  calmness,  many  times 
before;  but  then  his  attitude  had  been  softened 
by  the  detachment,  the  impersonality,  of  his  view. 
But  at  last  the  feeling  of  death  was  tangibly  at 
his  own  throat;  not  today,  nor  tomorrow,  prob 
ably;  but  inescapably.  Well,  he  assured  him 
self,  he  wouldn't,  at  that  intense  moment,  fail  an 
inner  necessity;  but  his  understanding  gave  him 
an  additional  feeling  of  the  accidental  aspects 
of  life  and  of  the  Cuban  revolution. 

Until  then  he  had,  sub-consciously,  except  for 
one  short  depression,  been  certain  of  the  ultimate 
triumph  of  right;  he  had  thought  it  must  suc 
ceed  through  its  mere  Tightness;  and  he  had 
pictured  justice  as  a  condition  dropped  benefi 
cently  from  the  clouds,  wrought  with  the  thunder 
of  angels'  wings.  But  accomplishment  on  earth, 
with  men,  he  now  saw,  was  neither  safe,  easy  nor 
assured.  It  was  the  result  of  bitter  struggle,  a 
[166] 


THE  BRIGHT  SHAWL 
strife  open  to  the  most  appalling  mischances.  A 
necessity  of  the  spirit,  it  must  be  executed  in  the 
flesh,  and  flesh  was  a  treacherous,  unstable  sub 
stance;  it  was  capable  not  only  of  traitorous  be 
trayals,  but  equally  of  honest,  and  no  less  fatal, 
failures.  With  this  in  his  thoughts  he  went  to  the 
door,  in  answer  to  a  knock,  and  received  a  heavy 
carefully  tied  parcel. 

He  opened  it,  and,  dripping  in  dazzling  color 
from  the  wrapping  paper,  was  La  Clavel's  man- 
ton,  the  one  in  which  he  had  first  seen  her  inso 
lently  dancing  the  jota.  Charles,  with  a  stirred 
heart,  searched  carefully  for  a  note,  a  scrap  of  re 
vealing  paper ;  but  there  was  none.  She  had  sent 
it  to  him  silently,  before  she  had  been  taken  away, 
in  a  sentiment  the  delicacy  of  which  deeply 
moved  him.  He  laid  the  shawl  over  the  bed, 
where  its  cruel  brilliancy  filled  the  white- walled 
room,  darkened  against  the  heat,  with  flashes  of 
magenta  and  orange  and  burning  blue.  La  Cla- 
vel  had  worn  it  dancing,  where  it  emphasized  her 
grace  and  perversity  and  stark  passion;  it  had 
been,  in  Charles  Abbott's  mind,  synonymous  with 
her,  with  the  vision  she  created;  but,  suddenly,  it 
lost  that  significance,  and  he  saw  it  as  the 
revealed  outspread  pattern  of  his  own  exis 
tence. 

[167] 


THE   BRIGHT   SHAWL 

*^- 

The  shawl  was  a  map,  a  representation,  of  the 
country  of  the  spirit  through  which  he  passed; 
such  emotions,  such  heat,  and  such  golden  roses, 
all  had  been,  were,  his  against  that  background 
of  perilous  endeavor.  It  seemed  to  float  up  from 
the  bed  and  to  reach  from  coast  to  coast,  from 
end  to  end,  of  Cuba;  its  flowers  took  root  and 
grew,  casting  about  splendor  and  perfume;  the 
blue  widened  into  the  sky,  the  tenderness  of  the 
clasping  sea;  the  dark  greens  were  the  shadows 
of  the  great  ceiba  trees,  the  gloom  of  the  jungles, 
the  massed  royal  palms  of  the  plains.  And  not 
only  was  it  the  setting,  the  country,  its  violent 
dissonances  became  cries,  victorious  or  hopeless, 
the  sweep  of  reddened  swords,  the  explosions  of 
muskets.  There  was  the  blood  that  had  welled 
into  the  Laurel  Ditch  of  Cabanas;  and,  as  well, 
the  sultry  mysterious  presence  of  Africa  in  the 
West — the  buzzing  madness  of  the  music  of  the 
danzon,  the  hysterics  of  brujeria. 

Charles,  at  the  heart  of  this,  stood  enveloped, 
surrounded,  by  a  drama  like  the  sharp  clash  of 
cymbals.  It  was  easy  to  be  overwhelmed, 
strangled,  blinded,  by  the  savage  color;  briefly 
to  be  obliterated.  That  possibility  had  been, 
lately,  very  much  in  his  mind;  and  he  wondered, 
against  all  his  recent  change,  if,  in  the  surrender 
[168] 


THE   BRIGHT    SHAWL 

of  his  idealism,  he  had  lost  his  amulet,  his  safety. 
While  he  had,  to  a  large  extent,  solved,  for  him 
self,  the  philosophy  of  conduct,  cleared  the  mo 
tives  of  his  acts,  a  great  deal  was  inexplicable 
still.  He  saw,  dimly,  that  there  could  be  little 
hope  of  justice  on  any  island  except  as  the  pro 
jection,  the  replica,  of  a  fundamental  universal 
integrity  of  justice.  Perfection  like  that  couldn't 
begin  on  the  rim  of  being  and  extend  inward;  it 
must  be  at  the  center  of  all  life,  obscured,  delayed, 
but,  in  an  end  not  computable  in  the  span  of  hu 
man  existence,  certain  and  inevitable.  Charles 
Abbott  now  had  the  feeling  that,  parallel  with  the 
maintaining  of  his  grasp  on  materialism,  his  rec 
ognition  of  the  means  at  his  hand,  there  should 
be  an  allegiance  to  a  supremacy  of  the  immeas 
urable  whole. 

That  double  vision,  the  acceptance  of  a  gen 
eral  good  together  with  the  possibility  of  extreme 
ill  to  the  individual,  puzzled  him.  He  was  re 
quired  to  put  faith  in  a  power  seemingly  indif 
ferent  to  him,  to  discharge  a  responsibility  in  re 
turn  for  which  nothing  that  he  could  weigh  was 
promised.  Charles  recalled  what  had  overtaken 
the  dancer,  La  Clavel,  in  payment  for  a  heroic 
effort  against  an  insupportable  oppression.  Dis 
aster  had  met  the  body,  the  flesh ;  what  occurred 
[169] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

in  the  spirit  he  was  unable  to  grasp ;  but  this,  sud 
denly,  breathlessly,  he  saw: 

La  Gavel's  bitter  defiance,  her  mountain- 
born  hatred  of  oppression,  her  beaten  but  unde- 
filed  body,  had  communicated  to  him  something 
of  her  own  valor.  It  was  as  though  she  had 
given  him  a  palm,  a  shielded  flame,  to  add  to  his 
own  fortitude.  In  all  probability  she  would, 
soon,  be  dead ;  Charles  correctly  gauged  the  Span 
ish  animosity;  and  yet  she  was  alive,  strong,  in 
him.  She  would  be  living;  it  was  Ceaza  y  San- 
tacilla  who  had  died,  been  vanquished;  his  ab 
normal  refinement  dropping  so  easily  into  the 
bestial,  the  measure  of  evil,  in  him,  for  which  he 
stood,  had  been  slain,  dissipated,  ended.  The 
shawl  contracted,  became  a  thing  magnificent  but 
silk,  a  manton  invested  with  a  significance  brave 
and  suprisingly  tender.  It  was,  now,  the  stan 
dard  of  La  Clavel,  the  mantle  of  the  saintliness 
he  had  proclaimed.  His  doubts,  his  questioning, 
were  resolved  into  the  conviction  that  the  act 
of  the  dancer  was  her  spirit  made  visible,  created 
tangibly  for  a  tangible  purpose,  and  that,  there, 
she  was  indestructible. 

With  that  conclusion  to  serve  as  a  stay  and  a 
belief,  a  philosophy  of  conduct,  he  returned  from 
the  extra-mundane  to  the  world.  Charles 
[170] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

thought  of  La  Clavel's  desire  to  dance  in  Buenos 
Aires,  for  South  America.  He  wondered  how 
old  she  was;  he  had  never  before  considered 
her  in  any  connection  with  age;  she  had  seemed 
neither  old  nor  young,  but  as  invested  with  the 
timeless  quality  of  her  art.  She  had  spoken  of 
ten  of  her  girlhood,  but  no  picture  of  her  as  a 
girl  had  formed  in  his  mind.  It  was  conceiv 
able  that,  in  more  stable  circumstances,  she  would 
have  grown  old,  become  withered  with  the  pecul 
iar  ugliness  of  aged  Spanish  women;  but  that, 
too,  he  could  not  realize.  Somehow,  La  Clavel's 
being  was  her  dancing,  and  what  had  gone  be 
fore,  or  what  might  have  followed,  were  irrele 
vant,  unreal ;  they  were  not  she.  He  understood, 
now,  her  protest  against  being  absorbed,  involved, 
in  anything  but  her  profession. 

He  became  conscious  of  the  sustained  gravity  of 
his  thoughts,  how  his  activity  had  been  forced 
from  the  body  to  his  mind;  and  that  recalled  to 
him  the  necessity  for  a  contrary  appearance.  It 
would  be  wise  for  him  to  go  to  the  Cafe  Dominica 
that  evening,  in  an  obvious  facile  excitement  at 
his  connection,  at  once  close  and  remote,  with  the 
death  of  Santacilla  in  the  dancer's  room.  But, 
beyond  the  fact  that  it  was  known  he  had  dis 
patched  the  servant  up-stairs,  and  the  usual  wild, 
[171] 


THE   BRIGHT    SHAWL 

thin  speculations,  nothing  had  been  allowed  to 
appear.  Santacilla,  it  was  announced,  had  died 
naturally.  La  Clavel  wasn't  mentioned.  She 
had  spoken  to  others  than  Charles  of  her  deter 
mination  to  go  to  the  Argentine ;  and  it  was  prob 
able,  rumor  said,  principally  in  Spanish  mouths, 
that  she  would  go  quietly  soutft.  At  the  United 
States  Club,  the  idlers  and  gamblers  surveyed 
Charles  with  dubious  looks;  and,  over  a  rum 
punch,  he  adopted  a  sullen  uncommunicative  air. 
It  would  not  do  to  drop  his  widely  advertised 
habits  too  suddenly;  he  could  not,  in  a  day, 
change  from  a  rake  to  a  serious  student  of  such 
books  as  Machiavelli's  Prince;  and  he  prepared, 
with  utter  disgust,  for  his  final  bow  in  the  cloak 
of  dissipation. 


Purely  by  accident  he  met,  at  the  Plaze,  de 
Toros,  Jaime  Quintara,  Remigio  Florez  and 
Andres.  It  was  so  fortunately,  evidently,  hap 
hazard,  that  they  continued  together  while  Charles 
related  the  circumstances  of  the  tragedy  in  La 
Clavel's  room.  The  others  were  filled  with  won 
der,  bravos,  at  her  strength  and  courage.  Some 
day,  Remigio  swore,  when  Cuba  was  free,  he 
[172] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

would  put  up  a  monument  to  her  in  India 
Park.  It  would  be  of  heroic  size,  the  bronze 
figure  of  a  dancer,  in  a  manton,  on  a  block  of 
stone,  with  an  appropriate  inscription. 

"The  trouble  with  that,"  Andres  objected,  "is 
if  we  should  live  and  put  up  a  monument  to  every 
one  who  deserved  it,  the  parks  would  be  too 
crowded  with  bronzes  for  walking.  All  of  Cuba 
might  have  to  be  commemorated  in  metal." 

At  Neptuno  Street  and  the  Paseo  Isabel  they 
parted.  Charles  proceeded  alone  toward  the  sea ; 
and,  with  the  knowledge  that  Andres  had  not 
gone  home,  but  would  be  evident  in  public  else 
where,  he  stopped  to  see  the  other  members  of  the 
Escobar  family.  Carmita  Escobar  had  faded 
perceptibly  since  Vincente's  death;  still  riven  by 
sorrow  she  ceaselessly  regretted  the  unhappy,  the 
blasphemous,  necessity  which  made  the  wearing 
of  mourning  for  him  inadmissible.  Domingo 
Escobar,  as  well,  showed  the  effects  of  continuous 
strain;  his  vein  of  humor  was  exhausted,  he  no 
longer  provoked  Charles'  inadequate  Spanish ;  he 
avoided  any  direct  reference  to  Cuba.  He  was, 
he  said,  considering  moving  to  Paris,  he  was  get 
ting  old  and  no  one  could  complain,  now,  since — . 
He  broke  off,  evidently  at  the  point  of  referring 
to  Vincente  and  the  Escobar  local  patriotism. 
[173] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

But  Narcisa,  Charles  was  told,  had  become 
promised  to  Hector  Carmache,  an  admirable  gen 
tleman  with  large  sugar  interests;  luckily,  for 
Narcisa,  unconnected  with  any  political  dreams. 

"She  will  be  very  happy,"  her  mother  pro 
claimed. 

Narcisa  narrowed  her  eyes.  "He  lives  on  an 
estancia,"  she  added,  "where  there  will  be  ban 
ana  trees  and  Haitians  to  watch ;  and  the  conver 
sation  will  be  about  the  number  of  arrobas  the 
mill  grinds."  She  relapsed  again  into  silence; 
but,  from  her  lowered  countenance,  he  caught  a 
quick  significant  glance  toward  the  balcony. 
She  rose,  presently,  and  walked  out.  Charles 
gazed  at  Domingo  and  Carmita  Escobar;  they 
were  sunk  in  thought,  inattentive,  and  he  quietly 
joined  Narcisa. 

"Andres  has  told  me  a  great  deal  about  you," 
she  proceeded;  "I  made  him.  He  loves  you  too, 
and  he  says  that  you  are  very  strong  and  respec 
ted  everywhere.  I  have  had  to  hear  it  like  that, 
for  you  never  come  here  now.  And  I  hear  other 
things,  too,  but  from  my  maid,  about  the  dancer, 
La  Clavel.  You  gamble,  it  seems,  and  drink  as 
well." 

That,  he  replied,  was  no  more  than  half  true; 
it  was  often  necessary  for  him  to  appear  other 
[174] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

than  he  was.  He  studied  her  at  length:  she  had 
grown  more  lovely,  positively  beautiful,  in  the 
past  month;  the  maturity  of  her  engagement  to 
marry  had  already  intensified  her.  Narcisa's 
skirt  had  been  lowered  and  her  hair,  which  had 
hung  like  a  black  fan,  was  tied  with  a  ribbon. 

"How  do  you  like  me?"  she  demanded.  But 
when  he  told  her  very  much,  she  shook  her  head 
in  denial.  "I  ought  to  be  ashamed,"  she  added, 
"but  I  am  not.  Did  you  realize  that,  when  we 
were  out  here  before,  I  made  you  a  proposal? 
You  ignored  it,  of  course.  ...  I  am  not  ashamed 
of  what  I  did  then,  either.  Afterwards,  stand 
ing  here,  I  wanted  to  throw  myself  to  the  street; 
but,  you  see,  I  hadn't  the  courage.  It's  better 
now,  that  time  has  gone — I'll  get  fat  and  fright 
ful." 

"This  Carmache,"  Charles  Abbott  asked, 
"don't  you  like,  no,  love  him?"  She  answered: 

"He  is,  perhaps,  fifty — I  am  fifteen — and  quite 
deaf  on  one  side,  I  can  never  remember  which; 
and  he  smells  like  bagasse.  I've  only  seen  him 
once,  for  a  minute,  alone,  and  then  he  wanted  me 
to  sit  on  his  knees.  I  said  if  he  made  me  I'd  kill 
him  some  night  when  he  was  asleep.  But  he 
only  laughed  and  tried  to  catch  me.  You  should 
have  heard  him  breathing;  he  couldn't.  He 
[175] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 
called  me  his  Carmencita.    But,  I  suppose,  I  shall 
come  to  forget  that,  as  well.     I  wanted  you  to 
know  all  about  it ;  so,  when  you  hear  of  my  mar 
riage,  you  will  understand  what  to  look  for/' 

"That  is  all  very  wrong  1"  Charles  exclaimed. 

In  reply  she  said,  hurriedly,  "Kiss  me." 

That  was  wrong,  too,  he  repeated,  afterward. 
Her  warmth  and  tender  fragrance  clung  to  him 
like  the  touch  of  flower  petals.  She  turned  away, 
standing  at  the  front  of  the  balcony,  her  arms, 
bare  under  elbow  ruffles,  resting  on  the  railing. 
The  flambeau  trees  in  the  Parque  Isabel  were  like 
conflagrations.  Her  head  drooped  on  her  slen 
der  neck  until  it  almost  rested,  despairingly,  on 
the  support  before  her.  "I  hate  your  northern 
way  of  living,"  her  voice  was  suppressed,  dis 
turbingly  mature;  "I  hate  their  bringing  you  into 
the  house,  only  to  break  my  heart.  Charles," 
she  laid  an  appealing  hand  on  his  sleeve,  "could 
you  do  this — help  me  to  run  away?  We  have 
cousins  in  New  York  who  would  receive  me.  If 
you  could  just  get  me  on  a  steamer!" 

"No,"  he  said  decidedly,  "I  could  not;  I 
wouldn't  even  if  it  were  possible.  What  would 
Andres,  my  friend,  think?  It  would  ruin  me 
here." 

"If  you  had,"  she  admitted,  after  a  little,  "as 
[176] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

soon  as  we  reached  the  street,  I  would  have  locked 
myself  about  your  neck  like  my  crystal  beads. 
Once  when  I  was  supposed  to  be  going  with  a 
servant  to  the  sea  baths,  I  had  the  quitrin  stop  at 
the  San  Felipe,  and  I  went  up  the  stair,  to  the  roof, 
to  your  room,  but  you  were  out.  You  see,  I  am 
a  very  evil  girl." 

He  agreed  to  the  extent  that  she  was  a  very 
foolish  girl.  In  turn  she  studied  him  carefully. 

"You  seem  to  have  no  heart,"  she  announced 
finally;  "not  because  you  don't  love  me,  but  in 
affairs  generally;  but  I  can  tell  you  a  secret— 
you  have!  It's  as  plain  as  water.  What  you 
think  you  are — poof ! "  She  blew  across  the  open 
palm  of  her  hand. 

"I  hope  not,"  he  returned  anxiously.  "But 
you  are  too  young,  even  if  you  are  to  be  married, 
to  know  about  or  to  discuss  such  things.  As  An 
dres'  best  friend  I  must  caution  you — " 

"Why  did  you  kiss  me?"  she  interrupted. 

He  was,  now,  genuinely  sorry  that  he  had,  but 
he  replied  that  it  had  been  no  more  than  the  sa 
lute  of  a  brother.  "You  had  better  go  in,"  he  con 
tinued;  "when  they  realize  we  are  out  here  there 
will  be  a  stir,  perhaps  you  will  be  put  to  bed." 

"I  might  make  a  scandal,"  she  deliberated, 
"throw  myself  on  you  and  cry  as  loudly  as  pos- 
[177] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

sible."  A  smile  appeared  upon  her  fresh  charm 
ing  lips  at  his  expression  of  dismay.  "Then  you 
would  have  to  marry  me.'7 

"I'd  have  to  spank  you,"  he  retorted. 

"I  shall  never  speak  directly  to  you  again," 
she  concluded;  "so  you  must  remember  what 
I  say,  that  you  are  not  what  you'd  like  to 
be." 

She  was,  he  thought,  in  spite  of  her  loveliness, 
a  very  disagreeable  little  girl.  That  designation, 
ludicrously  inadequate,  he  forced  upon  himself. 
With  a  flutter  of  her  skirts  she  was  gone.  The 
afternoon  was  so  still  that  he  could  hear  the  dril 
ling  of  soldiers  by  the  shore,  the  faint  guttural 
commands  and  the  concerted  grounding  of  mus 
kets.  Narcisa  and  her  unpleasant  prediction 
faded  from  his  mind.  Standing  on  the  balcony 
he  imagined  a  vast  concourse  gathered  below  with 
upturned  faces,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  He 
heard  the  round  periods,  the  sonorous  Spanish,  he 
delivered,  welcoming,  in  the  name  of  the  people, 
their  newly  gained  independence,  and  extending 
to  them  the  applause  and  reassurances  of  the 
United  States. 

"You  have  won  this  for  yourselves,"  he  pro 
claimed,  "by  your  valor  and  faith  and  patience; 
and  no  alien,  myself  least  of  all,  could  have  been 
[178] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

indispensable  to  you.  What  I  was  privileged  to 
do  was  merely  to  hold  together  some  of  the  more 
inglorious  but  necessary  parts  of  your  struggle; 
to  bring,  perhaps,  some  understanding,  some  good 
will,  from  the  world  outside.  You  have  added 
Cuba  to  the  invaluable,  the  priceless,  parts  of  the 
earth  where  men  are  free;  a  deed  wrought  by  the 
sacrifice  of  the  best  among  you.  Liberty,  as  al 
ways,  is  watered  by  blood — "  he  hesitated,  frown 
ing,  something  was  wrong  about  that  last  phrase, 
of,  yes — the  watered  with  blood  part;  sprinkled, 
nourished,  given  birth  in?  That  last  was  the 
correct,  the  inevitable,  form.  The  hollow  dis 
embodied  voice  of  the  drill  sergeant  floated  up 
and  then  was  lost  in  the  beginning  afternoon  pro 
cession  of  carriages. 


With  a  larger  boutonniere  than  he  would  have 
cared  to  wear  at  home,  a  tea  rose,  he  was  making 
his  way  through  the  El  Louvre,  when  Caspar  Ar- 
co  de  Vaca  rose  from  a  gay  table  and  signalled 
for  him.  '  It  was  after  Retreta,  the  trade  wind 
was  even  more  refreshing  than  customary,  and 
the  spirit  of  Havana,  in  the  parques  and  paseos 
and  restaurants,  was  high.  The  Louvre  was 
[179] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

crowded,  a  dense  mass  of  feminine  color  against 
the  white  linen  of  the  men,  and  an  animated 
chatter,  like  the  bubbles  of  champagne  made 
articulate,  eddied  about  the  tables  laden  with 
dukes  and  the  cold  sweet  brightness  of  ices.1  He 
hesitated,  but  de  Vaca  was  insistent,  and  Charles 
approached  the  table. 

"If  you  think  you  can  remain  by  yourself," 
the  Spaniard  said  pleasantly,  "you  are  mistaken. 
For  women  now,  because  of  the  dancer,  you  are 
a  figure  of  enormous  interest." 

He  presented  Charles  to  a  petulant  woman  with 
a  long  nose,  a  seductive  mouth,  and  black  hair 
low  in  the  French  manner ;  then  to  a  small  woman 
in  a  dinner  dress  everywhere  glittering  with  clear 
glass  beads,  and  eyes  in  which,  as  he  gazed  briefly 
into  them,  Charles  found  bottomless  wells  of  in 
terrogation  and  promise.  He  met  a  girl  to 
whom,  then,  he  paid  little  attention,  and  a  man 
past  middle  age  with  cropped  grey  hair  on  a 
uniformly  brown  head  and  the  gilt  floriations  of 
a  general.  A  place  was  made  for  Charles  into 
which,  against  his  intention,  he  was  forced  by  a 
light  insistence.  It  was,  he  discovered,  beside  the 
girl;  and,  because  of  their  proximity,  he  turned 


to  her. 

/At  c 


once  he  recognized  that  she  was  unusual, 
[180] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

strange:  he  had  dismissed  her  as  plain,  if  not 
actually  ugly,  and  that  judgment  he  was  forced 
to  recall.  JThe  truth  was  that  she  possessed  a 
rare  fascination;  but  where,  exactly,  did  it  lie? 
She  was,  he  thought,  even  younger  than  Narcisa, 
yet,  at  the  same  time,  she  had  the  balanced  calm 
of  absolute  maturity.  Then  he  realized  that  a 
large  part  of  her  enigmatic  charm  came  from  the 
fact  that  she  was,  to  a  marked  degree,  Chinese. 
Her  face,  evenly,  opaquely,  pale,  was  flat,  an  oval 
which  held  eyes  with  full,  ivory-like  lids,  narrow 
eye  brows,  a  straight  small  nose  and  lips  heavily 
coated  with  a  carmine  that  failed  utterly  to  dis 
guise  their  level  strength.  Her  lustreless  hair, 
which  might  have  been  soot  metamorphosed  into 
straight  broad  strands,  was  drawn  back  severely, 
without  ornament  or  visible  pins,  over  her  shapely 
skull.  She  wore  no  jewelry,  no  gold  bands 
nor  rings  nor  pendants;  and  her  dress,  cut 
squarely  open  at  her  slim  round  throat,  was  the 
fragile  essence  of  virginity./  She  attracted 
Charles,  although  he  could  think  of  nothing  in 
the  world  to  say  to  her;  he  was  powerless  to  im 
agine  what  interested  her ;  a  girl,  she  had  no  flavor 
of  the  conceits  of  her  years;  feminine,  she  was 
without  the  slightest  indication  of  appropriate 
sentiments,  little  facile  interests  or  enthusiasms. 
[181] 


THE  BRIGHT  SHAWL 
From  time  to  time  she  looked  at  him,  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  eyes,  blue,  grey  or  green,  oblique  and 
disturbing;  she  said  nothing  and  ate  in  infini 
tesimal  amounts  the  frozen  concoction  of  sapote 
before  her. 

Charles  Abbott  hadn't  grasped  her  name,  and 
in  reply  to  his  further  query,  she  told  him  in 
a  low  voice  that  it  was  Pilar,  Pilar  de  Lima. 
Yes,  she  had  been  born  in  Peru.  No,  she  had 
never  been  to  China,  although  she  had  travelled 
as  far  as  Portugal  and  London.  His  interest  in 
her  increased,  she  was  so  wholly  outside  his — 
any  conceivable — life;  and,  without  words,  in  a 
manner  which  defied  his  analysis,  she  managed 
to  convey  to  him  the  assurance  that  he  was  not  im 
possible  to  her. 

He  found,  at  intervals,  fresh  qualities  to  en 
gage  him:  she  had  unmistakably  the  ease  which 
came  from  the  command  of  money;  the  pointed 
grace  of  her  hands — for  an  instant  her  palm  had 
sought  his — hid  an  unexpected  firmness ;  she  was 
contemptuous  of  the  other  vivacious  women  at  the 
table;  and  not  a  change  of  expression  crossed 
the  placidity  of  a  countenance  no  more  than  a 
mask  for  what,  mysterious  and  not  placid,  was 
back  of  it.  Then,  in  an  undertone  during  a  burst 
of  conversation,  she  said,  "I  like  you."  She  was 
[182] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

half  turned  from  him,  in  profile,  and  her  lips 
had  not  seemed  to  move.  Seen  that  way  her 
nose  was  minute,  the  upward  twist  of  her  eye 
emphasized,  her  mouth  no  more  than  a  painted 
sardonic  curl.  She  was  as  slender  as  a  boy  of  a 
race  unknown  to  Charles — without  warmth,  with 
out  impulses,  fashioned  delicately  for  rooms 
hung  in  peacock  silks  and  courtyards  of  fretted 
alabaster  and  burnished  cedar. 

He  wanted  to  reply  that  he  liked  her,  but,  in 
prospect,  that  seemed  awkward,  banal;  and  a 
lull  in  the  conversation  discouraged  him.  In 
stead  he  examined  his  feelings  in  regard  to  this 
Pilar  from  Lima.  It  was  obvious  that  she  had 
nothing  in  common  with  the  women  he  had  dis 
missed  from  his  present  and  future;  she  was 
more  detached,  even,  than  La  Clavel  on  the  stage. 
And  when,  abruptly,  she  began  to  talk  to  him,  in 
an  even  flow  of  incomprehensible  vowels  and  sib 
ilants,  he  was  startled.  Caspar  de  Vaca  spoke 
to  her  in  a  peremptory  tone,  and  then  he  ad 
dressed  Charles,  "She'll  hardly  say  a  word  in  a 
Christian  tongue,  but,  when  it  suits  her,  she 
will  sail  on  in  Chinese  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
It  may  be  her  sense  of  humor,  it  may  be  a  prayer, 
perhaps  what  she  says,  if  it  could  be  understood, 
would  blast  your  brain,  and  perhaps  she  merely 
[183] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

has  a  stomach  ache. ' '  But  his  remonstrance  had  the 
effect  designed ;  and  after  an  imperturable  silence, 
she  said  again  that  "she  liked  Charles  Abbott. 

The  General  regretfully  pushed  back  his  chair, 
rose,  and  held  out  an  arm  in  formal  gallantry, 
and  Charles  was  left  to  follow  with  Pilar.  She 
lingered,  while  the  others  went  on,  and  asked  him 
if,  tomorrow,  he  would  take  her  driving  to  Los 
Molinos.  He  hesitated,  uncertain  of  the  wisdom 
of  such  a  proceeding,  when  her  hand  again  stole 
into  his.  What,  anyhow,  in  the  face  of  that  di 
rect  request,  could  he  do  but  agree?  They  must 
have,  she  proceeded,  since  he  hadn't  a  private 
equipage,  the  newest  quitrin  he  could  procure, 
and  a  calesero  more  brilliant  than  any  they  should 
pass  on  the  Calzada  de  la  Reina.  After  all  he 
would  be  but  keeping  up  the  useful  pretence  of  his 
worldliness;  yet,  looking  forward  to  the  drive 
with  her,  an  hour  in  the  scented  shade  of  the  Cap 
tain-General's  gardens,  he  was  aware  of  an  antic 
ipated  pleasure. 

The  need  for  caution  was  reduced  to  a  mini 
mum,  it  shrank  from  existence;  naturally  he 
wouldn't  talk  to  Pilar  de  Lima  of  politics,  he 
could  not  be  drawn  into  the  mention  of  his 
friends,  of  any  names  connected  in  the  slightest 
way  with  a  national  independence.  It  was 
[184] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

possible  that  she  had  been  selected,  thrown  with 
him,  for  that  very  purpose;  but  there  his  intelli 
gence,  he  thought,  his  knowledge  of  intrigue,  had 
been  underestimated,  insulted.  No — Pilar,  de 
Vaca,  Spain,  would  gain  nothing,  and  he  would 
have  a  very  pleasant,  an  oddly  stimulating  and 
exciting,  afternoon.  The  excitement  came  from 
her  extraordinary  personality,  an  intensity  tem 
pered  with  a  remoteness,  an  indifference,  which 
he  specially  enjoyed  after  the  last  few  tempest 
uous  days.  Being  with  her  resembled  floating  in 
a  barge  on  a  fabulous  Celestial  river  between 
banks  of  high  green  bamboo.  It  had  no  ulte 
rior  significance.  She  was  positively  inhuman. 
He  met  her,  with  an  impressive  glittering  car 
riage  and  rider,  according  to  her  appointment, 
at  the  end  of  the  Paseo  Tacon,  past  the  heat  of 
afternoon.  She  was  accompanied  by  a  duenna 
with  rustling  silk  on  a  tall  gaunt  frame,  and  a 
harsh  countenance,  the  upper  lip  marred  by  a 
bluish  shadow,  swathed  in  a  heavy  black  man 
tilla.  Pilar  was  exactly  the  same  as  she  had  been 
the  evening  before.  The  diminished  but  still 
bright  day  showed  no  flaw  on  the  evenness  of  her 
pallor,  the  artificial  carmine  of  her  lips  was  like 
the  applied  petals  of  a  geranium,  her  narrow 
sexless  body  was  upright  in  its  film  of  clear  white. 
[185] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

The  older  woman  was  assisted  into  the  leather 
body  of  the  quitrin,  Pilar  settled  lightly  in  the 
nina  bonita,  Charles  mounted  to  the  third  place, 
the  calesero  swung  up  on  the  horse  outside  the 
shafts,  and  they  rattled  smartly  into  the  Queen's 
Drive.  From  where  he  sat  he  could  see  nothing 
but  the  sombre  edge  of  the  mantilla  beside  him 
and  Pilar's  erect  back,  her  long  slim  neck  which 
gave  her  head,  her  densely  arranged  hair,  an  ap 
pearance  of  too  great  weight.  On  either  side  the 
fountains  and  glorietas,  the  files  of  close-planted 
laurel  trees,  whirled  behind  them.  The 
statue  of  Carlos  III  gave  way  to  the  Jardin 
Botanico. 


There  he  commanded  the  carriage  to  halt,  and, 
in  reply  to  Pilar's  surprise,  explained  that  he  was 
following  the  established  course.  "We  leave  the 
quitrin  here,  and  it  meets  us  at  the  gates  of  the 
Quinta,  and  meanwhile  we  walk.  There  are  a 
great  many  paths  and  flowers."  On  the  ground 
stye  admitted  her  ignorance  of  Havana,  and,  fol 
lowed  at  a  conventional  distance  by  her  com 
panion,  they  entered  the  Gardens.  There  was  a 
warm  perfumed  steam  of  watered  blossoming 
[186] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

plants  and  exotic  trees;  and  Charles  chose  a  way 
that  brought  them  into  an  avenue  of  palms, 
through  which  the  fading  sunlight  fell  in  diagonal 
bands,  to  a  wide  stone  basin  where  water  lilies 
spread  their  curd-like  whiteness!  There  they 
paused,  and  Pilar  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  pool, 
with  one  hand  dipping  in  the  water.  He  saw 
that,  remarkably,  she  resembled  a  water  lily 
bloom,  she  was  as  still,  as  densely  pale;  and  he 
told  her  this  in  his  best  manner.  But  if  it 
pleased  her  he  was  unable  to  discover.  A  hun 
dred  feet  away  from  them  the  chaperone  cast  her 
replica  on  the  unstirred  surface  of  the  water,  in 
the  middle  of  which  a  fountain  of  shells  main 
tained  a  cool  splashing. 

"I  should  like  one  of  those,"  she  said,  indi 
cating  a  floating  flower. 

"It's  too  far  out,"  he  responded,  and  she  turned 
her  slow  scrutiny  upon  him.  Her  eyes  were 
neither  blue  nor  gray  but  green,  the  green  of  a 
stone. 

"That  you  are  agreeable  is  more  important 
than  you  know,"  she  said  deliberately.  "And  de 
Vaca — "  she  conveyed  a  sense  of  disdain. 
"What  is  it  that  he  wants  so  much  from  you? 
How  can  it,  on  this  little  island,  a  place  with  only 
two  cities,  be  important?  I  must  tell  you  that  I 
[1871 


THE  BRIGHT  SHAWL 
am  not  cheap;  and  when  I  was  brought  here,  to 
see  a  boy,  it  annoyed  me.  But  I  am  annoyed  no 
longer,"  her  wet  fingers  swiftly  left  their  prints 
on  his  cheek.  " Oporto  and  the  English  Court — I 
understood  that;  but  to  dig  secrets  from  you,  an 
innocent  young  American,"  she  relapsed  into  si 
lence  as  though  he,  the  subject  she  had  introduced, 
were  insufficient  to  excuse  the  clatter  of  speech. 
So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  he  replied,  he  had 
no  idea  of  her  meaning. 

"You  see,"  he  went  on  more  volubly,  "I  was, 
to  some  extent,  connected  with  the  death  of  San- 
tacilla,  an  officer  of  the  regiment  of  Isabel,  and 
they  may  still  be  looking  for  information  about 
that." 

She  assured  him  he  was  wrong.  "It  is  Cuba 
that  troubles  them.  It's  in  their  heads  you  are 
close  to  powerful  families  here  and  in  North 
America,  and  that  you  are  bringing  them  together, 
pouring  Northern  gold  into  the  empty  pockets  of 
the  Revolution.  I  saw  at  once,  before  I  met  you, 
that  I  should  waste  my  time,  and  I  was  going 
away  at  once  .  .  .  until  you  walked  into  the  res 
taurant.  Now  it  will  amuse  me,  and  I  shall  take 
the  doblons  I  get  and  buy  you  a  present,  a  ruby, 
and,  when  you  see  Captain  de  Vaca,  you  will  wear 
it  and  smile  and  he  will  know  nothing." 
[188] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

"You  mustn't  buy  me  anything,"  Charles  pro 
tested  earnestly;  "I  can  at  least  understand  that, 
how  generous  you  are.  If  you  are  unfamiliar 
with  Cuba  perhaps  you  will  let  me  inform  you. 
I  came  to  Havana,  you  see,  for  my  lungs.  They 
were  bad,  and  now  they  are  good ;  and  that  is  my 
history  here.  There  is  no  hole  in  them  because 
I  have  been  careful  to  avoid  the  troubles  on  the 
street;  and  the  way  to  miss  them  is  not  to  give 
them  an  admission.  The  reason  I  am  here  with 
you  is  because  you  seemed  to  me,  in  yourself,  so 
far  away  from  all  that.  Your  mind  might  be  in 
China."  He  went  on  to  make  clear  to  her  his 
distrust  of  women.  "But  you  are  different;  you 
are  like  a  statue  that  has  come  to  life,  a  very 
lovely  statue.  What  you  really  are  doesn't  mat 
ter,  I  don't  care,  I  shall  never  know.  But  a 
water  lily — that  is  enough." 

"Are  you  wise  or  no  deeper  than  this?"  she 
asked,  indicating  the  shallow  fountain.  "But 
don't  answer;  how,  as  you  say,  can  it  affect  us? 
You  are  you  and  I  am  I.  We  might  even  love 
each  other  with  no  more;  that  would  be  best — 
it  is  the  more  that  spoils  love." 

"What  do  you  know  about  that?" 

But,  relapsing  into  immobility,  she  ignored  his 
question.  Beyond  doubt  his  interest  in  her  had 
[189] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

increased ;  it  was  an  attraction  without  name,  yet 
none  the  less  potent.  Seated  close  beside  him 
she  still  seemed  to  be  fashioned  from  a  vital  ma 
terial  other  than  flesh  and  blood;  she  was  like  a 
creation  of  sheer  magic  ...  for  what  end? 
y  rose,  leaving  the  Botanical  Gardens,  the 
spotted  orchids  and  air  plants  and  oleanders,  for 
the  Quinta.  There  they  passed  into  a  walk  com 
pletely  arched  over  with  the  bushes  of  the  Mar 
Pacifico,  the  rose  of  the  Pacific,  a  verdurous  tun 
nel  of  leaves  and  broad  fragrant  pink  blooms, 
with  a  farther  glimpse  of  a  cascade  over  mossy 
rocks. 

f  The  stream  entered  a  canal,  holding  some  gaily 
painted  and  cushioned  row  boats,  and  a  green- 
gold  flotilla  of  Mandarin  ducks.  ^  There  were 
aviaries  of  doves,  about  which  strollers  were  gath 
ered,  and  a  distant  somnolent  military  guard. 
It  was  the  first  time  for  weeks  that  Charles  had 
been  consciously  relaxed,  submerged  in  an  un 
guarded  pleasure  of  being.  Pilar  might  be  hon 
est  about  de  Vaca  and  his  purpose,  or  she  might 
be  covering  something  infinitely  more  cunning. 
It  would  bring  her  nothing !  The  very  simplic 
ity  of  his  relationship  with  her  was  a  complete 
protection ;  he  had  no  impulse  to  be  serious,  noth 
ing  in  his  conversation  to  guard. 
[190] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Pilar  seemed  singuarly  young  here,  engaged  in 
staring  at  and  fingering  the  flowers,  reading  the 
sign  boards  that  designated  the  various  pleasances 
— the  Wood  of  the  Princess,  the  Garden  of 
San  Antonio,  the  Queen's  Glade.  Her  tactile 
curiosity  was  insatiable,  she  trailed  her  sensitive 
hands  over  every  strange  surface  that  offered. 
Then,  with  her  airy  skirt  momentarily  caught  on 
a  spear  of  bearded  grass,  he  saw,  below  her  knee, 
under  the  white  stocking,  the  impression  of  a 
blade,  narrow7  and  wicked.  La  Clavel  had  car 
ried  a  knife  in  that  manner,  many  women,  he  had 
no  doubt,  did;  but  in  Pilar  its  stealthy  subdued 
gleam  affected  him  unpleasantly.  It  presented  a 
sharp  mocking  contrast  to  all  that,  in  connection 
with  her,  had  been  running  happily  through  his 
mind. 

"I  thought  you  were  a  moth,  soft  and  white," 
he  told  her;  "but  it  appears  that  you  are  a  wasp 
in  disguise — I  hope  it  won't  occur  to  you  to  sting 


me." 


Serenely  she  resettled  her  skirt.  "Did  you 
look  for  a  scapular?  Young  men's  eyes  should 
be  on  the  sky."  Then  she  put  an  arm  through 
his.  "It  was  never  there  for  you  ...  a  moth 
soft  and  white.  But  I  don't  care  for  that."  Her 
gliding  magnetic  touch  again  passed,  like  the  fall 
[191] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

of  a  leaf,  over  his  cheek.  Affecting  not  to  notice 
it  he  lighted  a  thin  cigar;  he'd  have  to  watch 
Pilar  de  Lima.  Or  was  it  himself  who  needed 
care?  The  feeling  of  detachment,  of  security, 
was  pierced  by  a  more  acute  emotion,  a  sensation 
that  resembled  the  traced  point  of  her  knife.  She 
asked,  nearing  the  place  where  they  were  to  m*eet 
the  quitrin,  when  she  might  see  him  again;  and 
mechanically"  he  suggested  that  evening,  after 
the  music  in  the  Plaza  de  Armas. 

Returning  to  Ancha  del  Norte  Street,  his  face 
was  grave,  almost  concerned,  but  he  was  made 
happy  by  finding  Andres  Escobar  in  his  room. 
Andres,  with  the  window  shades  lowered,  was 
lounging  and  smoking  in  his  fine  cambric  shirt 
sleeves.  He  had  a  business  of  routine  to  com 
municate,  and  then  he  listened,  censoriously,  to 
Charles'  account  of  his  afternoon. 

"She  is  a  little  devil,  of  course,  with  her  gar 
tered  steel,  but  she  amuses  me.  I  have  the 
shadow  of  an  idea  that  she  was  truthful  about 
de  Vaca;  and  the  ruby  would  be  an  excellent 
joke." 

"I  cannot  approve  of  any  of  this,"  Andres  de 
cided;  "it  has  so  many  hidden  possibilities — the 
Spaniards  are  so  hellish  cunning.     To  be  candid 
with  you,  I  can't  understand  why  they  have  neg- 
[192] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

lected  you  so  long.  You  are,  Charles,  fairly  con 
spicuous.  Perhaps  it  is  because  they  hope,  in  the 
end,  to  get  information  from  you.  In  that  case, 
if  we  were  in  danger,  I  would  shoot  you  with  my 
own  hand.  Drop  this  Chinese  water  lily;  their 
stems  are  always  in  the  mud." 

"On  the  contrary,  you  must  see  her,"  Charles 
Abbott  insisted.  "I've  explained  that  she  can't 
hurt  us;  and  we  may  get  something  floated  the 
other  way."  He  was  aware  of  an  indefinable 
resentment  at  Andres'  attitude:  his  love  for  him 
was  all  that  prevented  the  acerbity  of  a  voiced 
irritation. 


Yet,  when  the  regimental  band  was  leaving  to 
the  diminishing  strains  of  its  quickstep,  Andres 
joined  Charles  and  Pilar — who  had  left  her  qui- 
trin — strolling  through  the  Plaza.  As  usual  she 
said  practically  nothing;  but,  in  the  gloom,  she 
was  specially  potent,  like  a  fascinating  and  ironic 
idol  to  innocence ;  and  Charles  Abbott  was  pleased 
by  Andres'  instant  attention.  Pilar  was  reluc 
tant,  now,  to  return  to  the  carriage,  and  she  lin 
gered  between  the  men,  who,  in  turn,  gazed  down 
addressing  remarks  to  the  smooth  blackness  of 
[193] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

her  hair  or  to  the  immobile  whiteness  of  her 
face.  Charles  dropped  behind,  to  light  a  cigar, 
and  when  he  came  up  to  them  again  he  had  the 
illusive  sense  of  a  rapid  speech  stopped  at  his 
approach.  Andres  Escobar's  countenance  was 
lowered,  his  brow  drawn  together  ...  it  had 
been  Pilar  de  Lima,  surprisingly,  who  had  talked. 
Charles  recalled  the  manner  in  which  her  low, 
even  voice  flowed  from  scarcely  moving  lips,  with 
never  a  shadow  of  emotion,  of  animation,  across 
her  unstirred  flattened  features. 

Some  Cubans  gathered  about  the  table  when, 
later,  they  were  eating  ices;  and,  gaming  Pilar's 
consent,  he  left  with  the  indispensable  polite  re 
grets  and  bows.  He  was  vaguely  and  thoroughly 
disturbed,  uneasy,  as  though  a  grain  of  poison 
had  entered  him  and  were  circulating  through 
all  his  being.  It  was  a  condition  he  was  unfamil 
iar  with,  disagreeable  in  the  extreme;  and  one 
which  he  determined  to  stamp  out.  It  hadn't 
existed  in  his  contact  with  Pilar  until  the  appear 
ance  of  Andres;  yes,  it  came  about  from  the  con 
junction  of  the  girl,  Andres  and  himself;  spilled 
into  the  clarity  of  their  companionship,  Andres 
and  his,  her  influence  had  already  darkened 
and  slightly  embittered  it  ...  had  affected  it, 
Charles  added;  she  was  powerless  to  touch  him 
[194] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

in  the  future;  he  put  her  resolutely,  completely, 
from  his  thoughts. 

He  was  a  little  appalled  at  the  suddenness  with 
which  the  poison  had  tainted  him,  infecting  every 
quality  of  superiority,  of  detachment,  of  reason 
ing,  he  possessed.  When  he  saw  Andres  again, 
after  the  interval  of  a  week,  his  heart  was  empty 
of  'everything  but  crystal  admiration,  affection; 
but  Andres  was  obscured,  his  bearing  even  de 
fiant.  They  were  at  a  reception  given  by  a  con 
nection  of  the  Cespedes  on  the  Cerro.  Instinc 
tively  they  had  drawn  aside,  behind  a  screen  of 
pomegranate  and  mignonette  trees  in  the  patio; 
but  their  privacy,  Charles  felt,  had  been  uncom 
fortably  invaded.  He  spoke  of  this,  gravely,  and 
Andres  suddenly  drooped  in  extreme  dejection. 

"Why  did  you  ever  bring  us  together!"  he 
exclaimed.  "She,  Pilar,  has  fastened  herself 
about  me  like  one  of  those  pale  strangling  or 
chids.  No  other  woman  alive  could  have  trou 
bled  me,  but,  then,  Pilar  is  not  a  woman." 
Charles  Abbott  explained  his  agreement  with  that. 

"What  is  she?"  Andres  cried.  "She  says  noth 
ing,  she  hardly  ever  lifts  her  eyes  from  her 
hands,  I  can  give  you  my  word  kissing  her  is 
like  tasting  a  sherbet;  and  yet  I  can't  put  her 
out  of  my  mind.  I  get  all  my  thoughts,  my  feel- 
[195] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

ings,  from  her  as  though  they  passed  in  a  body 
from  her  brain  to  mine.  They  are  thoughts 
I  detest.  Charles,  when  I  am  away  from  you, 
I  doubt  and  question  you,  and  sink  into  an 
indifference  toward  all  we  are,  all  we  have 
been." 

"Something  like  that  began  to  happen  to  me," 
Charles  admitted;  "it  was  necessary  to  bring  it 
to  an  end;  just  as  you  must.  Such  things  are 
not  for  us.  Drop  her,  Andres,  on  the  Paseo, 
where  she  belongs."  The  other  again  slipped 
outside  the  bounds  of  their  friendship.  "I 
must  ask  you  to  make  no  such  allusion,"  he  re 
torted  stiffly.  Charles  laughed,  "You  old  idiot," 
he  said  affectionately,  "have  her  and  get  over  it, 
then,  as  soon  as  possible ;  I  won't  argue  with  you 
about  such  affairs,  that's  plain."  Andres  laid 
a  gripping  hand  on  his  arm,  avoiding,  while  he 
spoke,  Charles'  searching  gaze. 

"There  is  one  thing  you  can  do  for  me,"  he 
hurried  on,  "and — and  I  beg  you  not  to  refuse. 
The  manton  that  belonged  to  La  Clavel!  I  de 
scribed  it  to  Pilar,  and  she  is  mad  to  wear  it  to 
the  danzon  at  the  Tacon  Theatre.  You  see,  it 
was  embroidered  by  the  Chinese,  and  it  is  ap 
propriate  for  her.  Think  of  Pilar  in  that 
shawl,  Charles." 

[196] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

"She  can't  have  it,"  he  answered  shortly. 

Andres  Escobar's  face  darkened.  "It  had  oc 
curred  to  me  you  might  refuse,"  he  replied. 
"Then  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  do.  But  it 
surprises  me,  when  I  remember  the  circumstances, 
that  you  have  such  a  tender  feeling  for  it.  After 
all,  it  wasn't  a  souvenir  of  love;  you  never  lost 
an  opportunity  to  say  how  worn  you  were  with 
La  Clavel." 

"No,  Andres,  it  isn't  a  token  of  love,  but  a  ban 
ner,  yours  even  more  than  mine,  a  charge  we  must 
keep  above  the  earth." 

That,  Andres  observed  satirically,  was  very 
pretty;  but  a  manton,  a  woman's  thing,  had  no 
relation  to  the  cause  of  Cuban  independence. 

"Perhaps,  but  of  course,  you  are  right,"  Charles 
agreed.  "Very  well,  then  it  is  only  a  supersti 
tion  of  mine.  I  have  the  feeling  that  if  we  lower 
this — this  standard  it  will  bring  us  bad  luck,  it 
will  be  disastrous.  What  that  Pilar,  you  may 
think,  is  to  you,  the  manton  has  always  been  for 
me.  It  is  in  my  blood;  I  regard  it  as  a  sailor 
might  a  chart.  And  then,  Andres,  remember — it 
protected  Cuba." 

"I  have  to  have  it,"  the  other  whispered 
desperately;  "she — she  wants  it,  for  the  dan- 
zon." 

[197] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Charles  Abbott's  resentment  changed  to  pity, 
and  then  to  a  calm  acceptance  of  what  had  the  as 
pect  of  undeviating  fate.  "Very  well,"  he  said 
quietly.  "After  all,  you  are  right,  it  is  nothing 
but  a  shawl,  and  our  love  for  each  other  must  not 
suffer.  I'll  give  it  to  you  freely,  Andres:  she 
will  look  wonderful  in  it." 

The  other  grasped  his  hands.  "Be  patient, 
Charles,"  he  begged.  "This  will  go  and  leave 
us  as  we  were  before,  as  we  shall  always  be.  It 
hasn't  touched  what  you  know  of,  it  is  absolutely 
aside  from  that — a  little  scene  in  front  of  the  cur 
tain  between  the  acts  of  the  serious,  the  main, 
piece.  I  doubted  her  honesty,  as  you  described 
it,  at  first;  but  you  were  right.  She  has  no  in 
terest  at  all  in  our  small  struggle;  she  is  only 
anxious  to  return  to  Peru." 

"I  wish  she  had  never  come  from  there!" 
Charles  declared;  "whether  she  is  honest  or  dis 
honest  is  unimportant.  She  is  spoiled,  like  a 
bad  lime." 

"If  you  had  been  more  successful  with  her — " 
Andres  paused  significantly. 

"So  that,"  Charles  returned,  "is  what  she  said 
or  hinted  to  you!"  Andres  Escobar  was  gazing 
away  into  the  massed  and  odorous  grey-blue  mi 
gnonette.  "Go  away  before  I  get  angry  with  you ; 
[198] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

you  are  more  Spanish  than  any  Mendoza.  The 
manton  you'll  find  at  home  tonight." 

He  was,  frankly,  worried  about  Andres;  not 
fundamentally — Andres'  loyalty  was  beyond  any 
personal  betrayal — but  because  he  was  aware  of 
the  essential  inflammability  of  all  tropical  emo 
tion.  The  other  might  get  into  a  rage  with  Pilar, 
who  never,  herself,  could  fall  into  such  an  error, 
and  pay  the  penalty  exacted  by  a  swift  gesture 
toward  the  hem  of  her  skirt.  Then  he  recalled, 
still  with  a  slight  shudder  of  delight,  the  soft 
dragging  feel  of  her  fingers  on  his  cheek.  He 
tied  the  shawl  up  sombrely,  oppressed  by  the 
conviction  of  mischance  he  had  -expressed  to  An 
dre's,  and  despatched  it. 

Pilar  de  Lima  might,  possibly,  depart  for  Peru 
earlier  even  than  she  hoped;  boats  left  not  in 
frequently  for  Mexico  and  South  America — the 
Argentine  for  which  La  Clavel  had  longed — and 
she  was  welcome  to  try  her  mysterious  arts  upon 
the  seas  away  from  Cuba  and  Andres.  A  sugar 
bag  could  easily,  at  the  appropriate  moment,  be 
slipped  over  her  head,  and  a  bateau  carry  her 
out,  with  a  sum  of  gold,  at  night  to  a  departing 
ship.  There  would  be  no  trouble,  after  she  had 
been  seen,  in  getting  her  on  board.  And  Charles 
Abbott  thought  of  her,  in  her  silent  whiteness,  cor- 
[199] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

rupting  one  by  one  the  officers  and  crew ;  a  vague 
hatred  would  spread  over  the  deck,  forward  and 
aft;  and  through  the  cabins,  the  hearts,  her  sug 
gestions  and  breath  of  evil  touched.  They  would 
never  see  Mexico,  he  decided;  but,  on  a  calm 
purple  night  in  the  Gulf,  a  sanguine  and  vol 
canic  inferno  of  blackened  passion  would  burst 
around  the  flicker  of  her  blanched  dress  and  face 
no  colder  in  death  than  in  life. 


Charles  Abbott's  thoughts  returned  continually 
to  Andres ;  in  the  shadowy  region  of  his  brain  the 
latter  was  like  a  vividly  and  singly  illuminated 
figure.  He  remembered,  too,  the  occasion  of  his 
first  seeing  Andres,  at  the  Hotel  Inglaterra:  they 
had  gone  together  into  the  restaurant,  where,  over 
rum  punches  and  cigars,  the  love  he  had  for  him 
had  been  born  at  once.  It  was  curious — that 
feeling;  a  thing  wholly  immaterial,  idealizing. 
He  had  speculated  about  it  before,  but  without 
coming  to  the  end  of  its  possibilities,  the  bottom 
of  its  meaning.  There  was  no  need  to  search  for 
a  reason  for  the  love  of  women ;  that,  it  might  be, 
was  no  more  than  mechanical,  the  allurement  cast 
by  nature  about  its  automatic  purpose.  It  be 
longed  to  earth,  where  it  touched  any  sky  was  not 
[200] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Charles'  concern;  but  his  friendship  for  Andres 
Escobar  had  no  relation  to  material  ends. 

At  first  it  had  been  upheld,  vitalized,  by  ad 
miration,  qualities  perceptible  to  his  mind,  to 
analysis;  he  had  often  reviewed  them — Andres' 
deep  sense  of  honor,  his  allegiance  to  a  conduct 
free  of  self,  his  generosity,  his  slightly  dramatic 
but  inflexible  courage,  the  fastidious  manners  of 
his  person.  His  clothes,  the  sprig  of  mimosa 
he  preferred,  the  angle  of  his  hat  and  the  rake 
back,  through  an  elbow,  of  his  malacca  cane,  were 
all  satisfying,  distinguished.  But  Charles'  con 
sciousness  of  these  actual  traits,  details,  had  van 
ished  before  an  acceptance  of  Andre's  as  a  whole, 
uncritically.  What,  once,  had  been  a  process  of 
thought  had  become  an  emotion  integral  with  his 
own  subconscious  being. 

Something  of  his  essential  character  had  en 
tered  Andres,  and  a  part  of  Andres  had  become 
bound  into  him.  This,  as  soon  as  she  had  grown 
into  the  slightest  menace  to  it,  had  cast  Pilar  de 
Lima  from  his  consideration.  It  had  been  no 
effort,  at  the  moment  necessary  he  had  forgotten 
her;  just  as  Andres,  faced  with  the  truth,  would 
put  her  away  from  him.  The  bond  between  them, 
Charles  told  himself,  was  forged  from  pure  gold. 

This  was  running  through  his  head  on  the 
[201] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

night  of  the  danzon.  He  was  seated  at  the  en 
trance  of  the  United  States  Club,  where  the 
sharp  Yankee  accents  of  the  gamblers  within 
floated  out  and  were  lost  in  the  narrow  walled 
darkness  of  Virtudes  Street.  It  was  no  more  than 
eleven,  the  Tacon  Theatre  would  be  empty 
yet.  .  .  .  Charles  had  no  intention  of  going  to 
the  danzon,  but  at  the  same  time  he  was  the  vic 
tim  of  a  restless  curiosity  in  connection  with  it; 
he  had  an  uncomfortable  oppression  at  the  vis 
ion  of  Andres,  with  Pilar  in  the  bright  shawl,  on 
the  floor  crowded  with  the  especial  depravities  of 
Havana. 

The  Spanish  officers  had  made  it  customary 
for  men  of  gentility  to  go  into  the  criolla  festivi 
ties;  they  were  always  present,  the  young  and 
careless,  the  drunken  and  degenerate;  and  that, 
too,  added  to  Charles'  indefinable  sense  of  pos 
sible  disaster.  In  a  way,  it  might  be  an  excellent 
thing  for  him  to  attend,  to  watch,  the  danzon.  If 
Andres  were  infatuated  he  would  be  blind  to  the 
dangers,  both  the  political  and  those  emanating 
from  the  mixture  of  bloods.  At  this  moment  the 
game  inside  ended,  and  a  knot  of  men,  sliding 
into  their  coats,  awkwardly  grasping  broad-brim 
med  hats,  appeared,  departing  for  the  Tacon 
Theatre.  A  perfunctory  nodded  invitation  for 
[202] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

him  to  accompany  them  settled  the  indecision  in 
Charles  Abbott's  mind.  And,  a  half  hour  later, 
he  was  seated  in  a  palco  of  the  second  tier,  above 
the  dance. 

Familiar  with  them,  he  paid  no  attention  to  the 
sheer  fantastic  spectacle;  the  two  orchestras,  one 
taking  up  the  burden  of  sound  when  the  other 
paused,  produced  not  for  him  their  rasping 
dislocated  rhythm.  He  was  aware  only  of  float 
ing  skirts,  masks  and  dark  or  light  faces,  cigars 
held  seriously  in  serious  mouths.  Charles  soon 
saw  that  Andres  and  Pilar  de  Lima  had  not  yet 
arrived.  As  he  leaned  forward  over  the  railing 
of  the  box,  Caspar  Arco  de  Vaca,  sardonic  and 
observing,  glanced  up  and  saluted  with  his  ex 
aggerated  courtesy.  He  disappeared,  there  was 
a  knock  at  the  closed  door  behind  Charles,  and 
de  Vaca  entered. 

There  was  a  general  standing  acknowledge 
ment  of  his  appearance;  the  visor  of  his  dress 
cap  was  touched  for  every  man  present,  and  he 
took  a  vacated  chair  at  Charles'  side.  "You 
weren't  attracted  to  my  white  absinthe,"  he  said 
easily.  On  the  contrary,  Charles  replied,  he  had 
liked  Pilar  very  well,  although  she  had  annoyed 
him  by  foolish  tales  of  a  Spanish  interest  in  him. 

"She  is,  of  course,  an  agent,"  de  Vaca  ad- 
[203] 


THE  BRIGHT  SHAWL 
mitted  indifferently.  "We  almost  have  to  keep 
her  in  a  cage,  like  a  leopard  from  Tartary.  She 
has  killed  three  officers  of  high  rank;  although 
we  do  not  prefer  her  as  an  assassin.  She  is  val 
uable  as  a  drop  of  acid,  here,  there;  and  extraor 
dinary  individuals  often  rave  about  her.  Well 
have  to  garrotte  her  some  time,  and  that  will  be 
a  pity." 

There  was  a  flash  of  color  below,  of  carmine 
and  golden  orange,  and  Charles  recognized  Pilar 
wrapped,  from  her  narrow  shoulders  to  her  deli 
cate  ankles,  in  the  manton.  Andres  Escobar, 
with  a  protruding  lip  and  sullen  eyes,  was  at  her 
side.  Suddenly  de  V,aca  utterly  astounded 
Charles;  with  a  warning  pressure  of  his  hand  he 
spoke  at  the  younger  man's  ear: 

"I  am  leaving  at  once  for  Madrid,  a  promotion 
has  fortunately  lifted  me  from  this  stinking 
black  intrigue,  and  I  have  a  memory  .  .  .  from 
the  sala  de  Armas,  the  echo  of  a  sufficiently  spir 
ited  compliment.  As  I  say,  I  am  off;  what  is 
necessary  to  you  is  necessary — a  death  in  Hav 
ana  or  a  long  life  at  home.  Where  I  am  con 
cerned  you  have  bought  your  right  to  either. 
You  cannot  swing  the  balance  against  Spain. 
And  I  have  this  for  you  to  consider.  Your 
friend,  Escobar,  has  reached  the  end  of  his  jour- 
[204] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

ney.  It  will  accomplish  nothing  to  inform  him; 
he  is  not  to  walk  from  the  theatre.  Very  well — 
if  you  wish  to  hatch  your  seditious  wren's  eggs 
tomorrow,  if  you  wish  to  wake  tomorrow  at  all, 
stay  away  from  him.  Anything  else  will  do  no 
good  except,  perhaps,  for  us." 

Charles  Abbott  sat  with  a  mechanical  gaze  on 
the  floor  covered  with  revolving  figures.  He 
realized  instantly  that  Caspar  Arco  de  Vaca  had 
been  truthful.  The  evidence  of  that  lay  in  the 
logic  of  his  words,  the  ring  of  his  voice.  The 
officer  rose,  saluted,  -and  left.  Andres  had  come 
to  the  end  of  his  journey!  It  was  incredible. 
He  had  not  moved  from  the  spot  where  Charles 
had  first  seen  him;  he  had  taken  off  his  hat,  and 
his  dark  faultlessly  brushed  hair  held  in  a  smooth 
gleam  the  reflection  of  a  light. 

Andres  turned  with  a  chivalrous  gesture  to 
Pilar,  who,  ignoring  it  completely,  watched  with 
inscrutable  eyes  the  passing  men.  The  shawl,  on 
her,  had  lost  its  beauty;  it  was  malevolent, 
screaming  in  color;  contrasted  with  it  her  face 
was  marble.  How,  Charles  speculated  desper 
ately,  was  Andres  to  be  killed?  And  then  he 
saw.  A  tall  young  Spaniard  with  a  jeering  coun 
tenance,  in  the  uniform  of  a  captain  in  a  regi 
ment  not  attached  at  Havana,  stopped  squarely, 
[205] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

with  absolute  impropriety,  before  Pilar  and  asked 
her  to  dance.  Andres  Escobar,  for  the  moment, 
was  too  amazed  for  objection;  and,  as  Pilar  was 
borne  away,  he  made  a  gesture  of  denial  that  was 
too  late. 

He  glanced  around,  as  though  to  see  if  anyone 
had  observed  his  humiliation;  and  Charles  Ab 
bott  instinctively  drew  back  into  the  box.  As  he 
did  this  he  cursed  himself  with  an  utter  loathing. 
Every  natural  feeling  impelled  him  below,  to  go 
blindly  to  the  support  of  Andres.  There  must 
be  some  way — a  quick  shifting  of  masks  and  es 
cape  through  a  side  door — to  get  him  safely  out 
of  the  hands  of  Spain.  This,  of  course,  would 
involve,  endanger,  himself,  but  he  would  welcome 
the  necessity  of  that  acceptance.  Caspar  de 
Va*ca  had  indicated  the  price  he  might  well  pay 
for  such  a  course — the  end,  at  the  same  time,  of 
himself;  not  only  the  death  of  his  body  but  the 
ruin  of  his  hopes  and  high  plans.  Nothing,  he 
had  told  himself  a  thousand  times,  should  be  al 
lowed  to  assail  them.  Indeed,  he  had  dis 
cussed  just  such  a  contingency  as  this  with  Andres. 
Theoretically  there  had  been  no  question  of 
the  propriety  of  an  utter  seeming  selfishness; 
the  way,  across  a  restaurant  table,  had  been 
clear. 

[206] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

* 

*  * 

In  the  box  the  other  Americans  maintained  a 
steady  absorbed  commenting  on  the  whirling 
color  of  the  danzon.  One,  finally,  attracted  by 
the  manton  on  Pilar  de  Lima,  called  the  atten 
tion  of  the  others  to  her  Chinese  characteristics. 
They  all  leaned  forward,  engaged  by  the  total 
pallor  of  her  immobility  above  the  blazing  silk. 
They  exclaimed  when  she  left  the  Spanish  officer 
and  resumed  her  place  by  Andres  Escobar's  side. 
"Isn't  that  peculiar?"  Charles  was  asked.  "You 
are  supposed  to  know  all  about  these  dark  affairs. 
Isn't  it  understood  that  the  women  keep  to  their 
own  men?  And  that  Cuban,  Abbott,  you  know 
him;  we  often  used  to  see  you  with  him! " 

"Yes,"  Charles  Abbott  acknowledged,  "part 
ners  seldom  leave  each  other.  That  is  Andres 
Escobar.' 

He  paid  no  more  heed  tor  the  voices  about  him, 
but  sat  with  his  gaze,  his  hopes  and  fears,  fas 
tened  on  Andres  and  Pilar.  Back  again,  she 
was,  as  usual,  silent,  dragging  her  fingers  through 
the  knotted  magenta  fringe  of  the  shawl.  An 
dres,  though,  was  speaking  in  short  tense  phrases 
that  alternated  with  concentrated  angry  pauses. 
She  lifted  her  arms  to  him,  and  they  began  to 
[207] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

dance.  They  remained,  however,  characteristic 
of  the  danzon,  where  they  were,  turning  slowly 
and  reversing  in  a  remarkably  small  space. 
They  were  a  notably  graceful  couple,  and  they 
varied,  with  an  intricate  stepping,  the  general 
monotony  of  the  measure. 

Charles  had  an  insane  impulse  to  call  down  to 
Andres,  to  attract  his  attention,  and  to  wave  him 
away  from  the  inimical  forces  gathering  about 
him.  Instead  of  this  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  with 
hands  the  reverse  of  steady,  and  concentrated  all 
his  thoughts  upon  the  fact  of  Cuban  independ 
ence.  That,  he  told  himself,  was  the  only  thing 
of  importance  in  his  life,  in  the  world.  And  it 
wasn't  Cuba  alone,  but  the  freedom  of  life  at 
large,  that  rested,  in  part  at  least,  on  the  founda 
tion  he  might  help  to  lay,  the  beginning  solidity 
of  human  liberty,  superiority.  He  forced  him 
self  to  gaze  with  an  air  of  indifference  at  the  danc 
ing  below  him ;  but,  it  seemed,  wherever  he  looked, 
the  manton  floated  into  his  vision.  He  saw, 
now,  nothing  else,  neither  Pilar  nor  Andres,  but 
only  the  savage  challenging  fire  of  silks.  The 
shawl's  old  familiar  significance  had  been  en 
tirely  lost — here  he  hated  and  feared  it,  it  was 
synonymous  with  all  that  threatened  his  success. 
It  gathered  into  its  folded  and  draped  square  the 
[208] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

evil  of  the  danzon,  the  spoiled  mustiness  of  joined 
and  debased  bloods,  the  license  under  a  grotesque 
similitude  of  restraint. 

This  was  obliterated  by  a  wave  of  affection  for 
Andres  so  strong  that  it  had  the  effect  of  an  in 
tolerable  physical  pressure  within  his  body:  his 
love  had  the  aspect  of  a  tangible  power  bound  to 
assert  itself  or  to  destroy  him.  With  clenched 
hands  he  fought  it  back,  he  drove  it  away  before 
the  memory  of  the  other.  Voices  addressed  him, 
but  he  paid  no  attention,  the  words  were  mere 
sounds  from  a  casual  sphere  with  which  he  had 
nothing  in  common.  He  must  succeed  in  his  en 
deavor,  put  into  actuality  at  this  supreme  mo 
ment  his  selfless  projection  of  duty,  responsibil 
ity.  For  it  was,  in  spite  of  his  preoccupation 
with  its  personal  possibilities,  an  ideal  to  which 
he,  as  an  entity,  was  subordinated.  He  recalled 
the  increasing  number  of  destinies  in  which  he 
was  involved,  that  were  being  thrust  upon  him, 
and  for  which,  at  best,  he  would  become  account 
able.  So  much  more  lay  in  the  immediate  fu 
ture  than  was  promised — justified — in  the  pres 
ent. 

Here,  too,  Andres  was  at  fault — precisely  the 
accident  had  happened  to  him  that  he  was  so 
strict  in  facing  for  others.  His  absorption 
[209] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

wouldn't,  as  an  infatuation,  continue;  or,  rather, 
it  could  not  have  lasted  .  .  .  long.  But  already 
it  had  been  long  enough  to  finish,  to  kill,  Andres. 
Charles  rose  uncontrollably  to  his  feet;  he  would 
save  his  friend  from  the  menace  of  the  whole 
Spanish  army.  But  de  Vaca,  whose  every  accent 
carried  conviction,  had  been  explicit:  he  par 
ticularly  would  not  have  spoken  under  any  other 
circumstance.  He  had,  in  reality,  been  tremen 
dously  flattering  in  depending  to  such  a  degree  on 
Charles'  coolness  and  intellect.  Caspar  de  Vaca 
would  have  taken  no  interest  in  a  sentimen 
talist.  The  officer  without  question  had  found  in 
Charles  Abbott  a  strain  of  character,  a  resolution, 
which  he  understood,  approved;  to  a  certain  ex 
tent  built  on.  He  had,  in  effect,  concluded  that 
Charles  and  himself  would  act  similarly  in  sim 
ilar  positions. 

It  was,  Charles  decided,  at  an  end ;  he  must  go 
on  as  he  had  begun.  A  strange  numb  species  of 
calm  settled  over  him.  The  vast  crowded  floor, 
the  boxes  on  either  hand,  sweeping  tier  on  tier  to 
the  far  hidden  ceiling,  surrounding  the  immense 
chandelier  glittering  with  crystal  lustres,  were 
all  removed,  distant,  from  him.  The  Tacon 
Theatre  took  on  the  appearance  of  a  limitless  pit 
into  which  all  human  life  had  been  poured,  ar- 
[210] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

bitrarily  thrown  together,  and,  in  the  semblance  of 
masquerading  gaiety,  made  to  whirl  in  a  time 
that  had  in  its  measure  the  rattle  of  bones,  a 
drumming  on  skulls.  This  conception  sickened 
him,  he  could,  he  felt,  no  longer  breathe  in  a 
closeness  which  he  imagined  as  fetid ;  and  Charles 
realized  that,  at  least,  there  was  no  need  for  him 
to  remain.  Indeed,  it  would  be  better  in  every 
way  to  avoid  the  impending,  the  immediate, 
catastrophe. 

With  a  hasty  incoherent  remark  he  secured  his 
hat  and  left  the  box.  Outside,  in  the  bare  cor 
ridor,  he  paused  and  his  lips  automatically 
formed  the  name  Andres  Escobar.  In  a  flash  he 
saw  the  gathering  disintegration  of  the  Escobar 
family — Vincente  dead,  his  body  dishonored; 
Narcisa,  ineffable,  flower-like,  sacrificed  to  dull 
ineptitude;  Domingo,  who  had  been  so  cheerfully 
round,  furrowed  with  care,  his  spirit  dead  before 
his  body;  Carmita  sorrowing;  and  Andres,  An 
dres  the  beautiful,  the  young  and  proud,  betrayed, 
murdered  in  a  brawl  at  a  negro  dance.  What  dis 
aster!  And  where,  in  the  power  of  accomplish 
ment,  they  had  failed,  where,  fatally,  they  had 
been  vulnerable,  was  at  their  hearts,  in  their  love 
each  for  the  other,  or  in  the  fallibility  of  such  an 
emotion  as  Andres  felt  for  Pilar.  He,  Charles 
[211] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Abbott,  must  keep  free  from  that  entanglement. 
This  reassurance,  however,  was  not  new;  all  the 
while  it  had  supported  him. 

He  made  his  way  down  the  broad  shallow  steps, 
passing  extraordinary  figures- — men  black  and 
twisted  like  the  carvings  of  roots  in  the  garb  of 
holiday  minstrels;  women  coffee-colored  and 
lovely  like  Jobaba,  their  faces  pearly  with  rice 
powder,  in  yellow  satin  or  black  or  raw  purple, 
their  feet  in  high-heeled  white  kid  slippers. 
Where  they  stood  in  his  way  he  brushed  them  un 
ceremoniously,  hastily,  aside,  and  he  was  followed 
by  low  threatening  murmurs,  witless  laughter. 
A  man,  loyal  to  the  Cuban  cause,  attempted  to 
stop  him,  to  repeat  something  which,  he  assured 
Charles,  was  of  grave  weight;  but  he  went  on 
heedlessly. 

His  passage  became,  against  his  reasoning 
mind,  a  flight;  and  he  cursed,  with  an  unbalanced 
rage,  in  a  minor  frenzy,  when  he  saw  that  he 
would  have  to  walk  through  a  greater  part  of  the 
body  of  the  theatre  before  he  could  escape.  The 
dancers  had,  momentarily,  thinned  out,  and  he 
went  directly  across  the  floor.  There  was  a  flame 
before  his  eye,  the  illusion  of  a  shifting  screen 
of  blood;  and  he  found  himself  facing  Pilar  de 
Lima  and  Andres ;  beyond,  the  Spanish  officer,  tall 
[212] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

and  lank  and  young,  was  peering  at  them  with 
an  aggressive  spite.  Charles  turned  aside,  avoid 
ing  the  tableau.  Then  he  heard  Andres'  exas 
perated  voice  ordering  the  girl  to  come  with  him  to 
the  promenade.  Instead  of  that  her  glimmering 
eyes,  with  lights  like  the  reflection  of  polished 
green  stones,  evading  Andres,  sought  and  found 
the  officer. 

Charles  Abbott's  legs  were  paralysed,  he  was 
held  stationary,  as  though  he  were  helpless  in  a 
dream.  His  heart  pounded  and  burned,  and  a 
great  strangling  impulse  shook  him  like  a  flag  in 
the  wind.  "Andres!"  he  cried,  "Andres,  let  her 
go,  she  is  nothing !  Quickly,  before  it  is  too  late. 
Remember — "  There  was  a  surging  concentra 
tion  so  rapid  that  Charles  saw  it  as  a  constricting 
menace  rather  than  the  offensive  of  a  group  of 
men.  Pilar  stooped,  her  hand  at  her  knee. 
Charles  threw  an  'arm  about  Andres,  but  he  was 
dragged,  struggling,  away.  She  was  icy  in  the 
hell  of  the  manton.  There  was  a  suspension  of 
breathing,  of  sound,  through  which  a  fragile  hand 
with  a  knife  searched  and  searched.  Then  a 
shocking  blow  fell  on  Charles  Abbott's  head  and 
the  Tacon  Theatre  rocked  and  collapsed  in  dark 
ness. 

[213] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

* 
*  * 

The  sharp  closing  of  a  door  brought  him,  a 
man  advanced  in  middle  age,  abruptly  to  his  feet. 
He  was  confused,  and  swayed  dizzily,  with  out 
stretched  arms  as  though  he  were  grasping  vainly 
for  the  dissolving  fragments  of  a  shining  mirage 
of  youth.  They  left  him,  forever,  and  he  stood 
regaining  his  strayed  sense  of  immediacy.  He 
was  surprisingly  weary,  in  a  gloom  made  evident 
by  the  indirect  illumination  of  an  arc  light  across 
and  farther  up  the  street.  Fumbling  over  the 
wall  he  encountered  the  light  switch,  and  flooded 
his  small  drawing-room  with  brilliance.  The 
clock  on  the  mantle,  crowned  by  an  eagle  with 
lifted  gilded  wings,  pointed  to  the  first  quarter 
past  eleven:  when  he  had  sunk  into  his  abstrac 
tion  from  the  present,  wandered  back  into  the 
sunlight  of  Havana  and  his  days  of  promise,  it 
had  been  no  more  than  late  afternoon;  and  now 
Mrs.  Vauxn  and  her  daughter,  his  neighbors,  had 
returned  from  their  dinner  engagement.  He 
wondered,  momentarily,  why  that  hour  and  cere 
mony  had  passed  unattended  for  him,  and  then 
recalled  that  Bruton  and  his  wife,  who  kept  his 
house,  had  gone  to  the  funeral  of  a  relative,  leav 
ing  on  the  dining-room  table,  carefully  covered, 
[214] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 
some  cuts  of  cold  meat,  a  salad  of  lettuce,  bran 
bread  and  fresh  butter,  and  the  coffee  percolator 
with  its  attachment  for  a  plug  in  the  floor. 

To  the  rest,  he  had  faithfully  told  Mrs.  Bruton, 
who  was  severe  with  him,  he'd  attend.  In  place 
of  that  he  had  wandered  into  an  amazing  mem 
ory  of  his  beginning  manhood.  The  beginning, 
he  told  himself,  and,  in  many  ways  the  end — 
since  then  he  had  done  little  or  nothing.  After 
the  ignominy  of  his  deportation  from  Cuba — im 
pending  satisfactory  negotiations  between  the 
United  States  and  Spain,  he  gathered  later,  had 
preserved  him  from  the  dignity  of  political  mar 
tyrdom — a  drabness  of  life  had  caught  him  from 
which  he  could  perceive  no  escape.  Not,  he 
was  bound  to  add,  that  he  had  actively  looked  for 
one.  No,  his  participation  in  further  events  had 
been  interfered  with  by  a  doubt,  his  life  had  been 
drawn  into  an  endless  question.  If  he  had 
walked  steadily  past  Andres  Escobar,  left  him  to 
a  murder  which,  after  all,  he,  Charles  Abbott, 
had  been  powerless  to  stop,  would  he  have  gone 
on  to  the  triumph  of  his  ideal? 

In  addition  to  this  there  was  the  eternal  specu 
lation  over  the  relation,  in  human  destiny,  of  the 
heart  to  the  head — which,  in  the  end,  would,  must, 
triumph?     There  was  no  necessity  in  his  final 
[215] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

philosophy  for  the  optimism,  where  men  are  con 
cerned,  that  had  been  his  first  stay.  He  wasn't 
so  sure  now — but  was  he  certain  of  anything? — 
of  the  coming  victory  of  right,  of  the  spreading, 
from  land  to  land,  of  freedom.  Did  life  reach 
upward  or  down,  or  was  it  merely  the  circling  of 
a  carrousel,  the  whirling  of  the  danzon?  Noth 
ing,  for  him,  could  be  settled,  definite.  He  was 
inclined  to  the  belief  that  the  blow  of  the  scab 
bard  on  his  head.  .  .  .  That,  however,  like  the 
rest,  was  indeterminate.  He  came  back  eternally 
to  the  same  query — had  he,  as  for  so  long,  so 
wearily,  he  had  insisted  to  himself,  failed,  proved 
weak  for  the  contentions  of  existence  on  a  pos 
itive  plane?  Had  he  become  a  part,  a  member, 
of  the  nameless,  the  individually  impotent, 
throng?  His  sympathies  were,  by  birth,  aristo 
cratic  rather  than  humane;  he  preferred  strength 
tc  acquiescence;  but  there  were  times  now,  per 
haps,  when  he  was  aging,  when  there  was  a  re 
lief  in  sinking  into  the  sea  of  humility. 

Then  his  thoughts  centered  again  on  Howard 
Gage;  who,  before  leaving  that  afternoon,  had 
unpleasantly  impressed  Charles  Abbott  by  his  in 
elasticity,  the  fixity  of  his  gaze  upon  the  ground. 
Howard  had  been  involved  in  a  war  of  a  magni 
tude  that  swamped  every  vestige  of  the  long- 
[216] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

sustained  Cuban  struggle.     And  he  admitted  his 
relation  to  this  had  been  one  of  bitter  necessity:    ,  ^ 

had  to  go,  we  all  did,"  Howard  Gage  had  ^ 
said.     "There  wasn't  any  music  about  it,  any   ^^ 
romance.     It  had  to  be  done,  that  was  all,  and 
\it  was.     Don't  expect  me  to  be  poetic." 

Yes,  the  youth  of  today  were,  to  Charles'  way 
of  thinking,  badly  off.  Anyone  who  could  not 
be  poetic,  who  wouldn't  be  if  he  had  the  chance, 
was  unfortunate,  limited,  cramped.  Visions, 
ideals,  were  indispensable  for  youth.  Why, 
damn  it,  love  was  dependent  on  dreams,  unreality. 
He  had  never  known  it;  but  he  was  able  to  ap 
preciate  what  it  might  be  in  a  man's  life.  He 
no  longer  scorned  love,  or  the  woman  he  was  able 
to  imagine — a  tender  loveliness  never  out  of  a 
slightly  formal  beauty.  For  her  the  service  parts 
of  the  house  would  have  no  existence;  and, 
strangely,  he  gave  no  consideration  to  children. 

It  wasn't  that  he  minded  loneliness;  that  was 
not  an  unmixed  evil,  especially  for  a  -man  whose 
existence  was  chiefly  spun  from  memories,  specu 
lations,  and  conditioned  by  the  knowledge  that 
he  had  had  the  best  of  life,  its  fullest  measure,  at 
the  beginning.  He  had  never  again  seen  a 
woman  like  La  Clavel,  a  friend  who  could  com 
pare  with  Andres,  wickedness  such  as  Pilar's, 
[217] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

days  and  players  as  brilliant  as  those  of  Havana 
before,  well — before  he  had  passed  fifty.  If  the 
trade  winds  still  blew,  tempering  the  magnifi 
cence  of  the  Cuban  nights,  they  no  longer  blew 
for  him.  But  Havana,  as  well,  had  changed. 

The  piano  next  door  took  up,  where  it  had  been 
dropped,  the  jota  from  Liszt's  Rhapsody  Es- 
pagnol.  It  rippled  and  sang  for  a  moment  and 
then  ended  definitely  for  the  night.  Other  dan 
cers,  Charles  reasonably  supposed,  continued  the 
passionate  art  of  that  lyric  passage;  he  read  of 
them,  coming  from  Spain  to  the  United  States  for 
no  other  purpose.  He  had  no  doubt  about  their 
capability,  and  no  wish  to  see  them.  They  would 
do  for  Howard  Gage.  What  if  he,  instead  of 
Charles  Abbott,  had  been  at  the  Tacon  Theatre 
the  night  Andres  had  died?  That  was  an  inter 
esting  variation  of  the  old  question — what,  in 
his  predicament,  would  Howard  Gage  have 
done?  Walked  away,  probably,  holding  his 
purpose  undamaged!  But  Andres  could  never 
have  loved  Howard  Gage ;  Andres,  for  his  attach 
ment,  required  warmth,  intensity,  the  ornamental 
forms  of  honor;  poetry,  briefly.  That  lost  ro 
mantic  time,  that  day  in  immaculate  white  linen 
with  a  spray  of  mimosa  in  its  button-hole ! 

There  were  some  flowers,  Charles  recalled, 
[218] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

standing  on  the  table  in  the  hall,  dahlias ;  and  he 
walked  out  and  drew  one  into  the  lapel  of  his 
coat.  It  was  without  scent,  just  as,  now,  life  was 
unscented;  yet,  surveying  himself  in  the  mirror 
over  the  vase,  he  saw  that  the  sombreness  of  his 
attire  was  lightened  by  the  spot  of  red.  Nothing, 
though,  could  give  vividness  to  his  countenance, 
that  was  dry  and  dull,  scored  with  lines  that  re 
sembled  traces  of  dust.  The  moustache  across 
his  upper  lip  was  faded  and  brittle.  It  was  of 
no  account;  if  he  had  lacked  ultimately  the 
courage,  the  stamina,  to  face  and  command  life, 
he  was  serene  at  the  threat  of  death. 

Suddenly  hungry,  he  went  into  the  dining- 
room  and  removed  the  napkins,  turned  the  elec 
tricity  into  the  percolator.  Then,  with  a  key 
from  under  the  edge  of  the  cloth  on  a  console- 
table,  he  opened  a  door  of  the  sideboard,  and 
produced  a  tall  dark  bottle  of  Marquis  de  Riscal 
wine,  and  methodically  drew  the  cork.  Charles 
Abbott  wiped  the  glass  throat  and,  seated,  poured 
out  a  goblet  full  of  the  translucent  crimson  liquid. 
It  brought  a  slight  flush  to  his  cheeks,  a  light  in 
his  eyes,  and  the  shadow  of  a  vital  humor,  a  past 
challenge,  to  his  lips.  He  had  lifted  many  toasts 
in  that  vintage,  his  glass  striking  with  a  clear 
vibration  against  other  eagerly  held  glasses. 
[219] 


THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

More  often  than  not  they — Tirso,  the  guardsman 
in  statue,  Remigio,  Jaime,  Andres  and  himself — 
had  drunk  to  La  Clavel.  He  drank  to  her,  prob 
ably  the  sole  repository  of  her  memory,  her  splen 
dor,  on  earth,  now.  "La  Clavel,"  he  said  her 
name  aloud.  And  then,  "Andres/* 

A  sharp  gladness  seized  him  that  Andres  had, 
almost  at  the  last,  heard  his  voice,  his  shouted 
warning  and  apprehension  and  love.  If  liberty, 
justice,  were  to  come,  one  life,  two,  could  make 
no  difference;  a  hundred  years,  a  hundred  hun 
dred,  were  small  measures  of  time.  And  if  all 
were  doomed,  impossible,  open  to  the  knife  of  a 
fateful  Pilar,  why,  then,  they  had  had  their  com 
panionship,  their  warmth,  a  period  of  unalloyed 
fidelity  to  a  need  that  broke  ideals  like  reeds, 
Perhaps  'what  they  had  found  was,  after  all, 
within  them,  that  for  which  they  had  swept  the 
sky. 


THE  END 


[220] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


-  1  1976  5  ? 


,n'56KW 


«£< 

WWV 
1CT17, 


U 


KC.CIR. 


.so. 


4  7956  U 

5feb_58Rit  OCT3    '66-1  PI 

RF,  LOAN  DEPT. 

JAN  3  01958  J  Art  2  J4 

2QJun'60MH  REC'D  ID 


REC'D  LD 

LD2l-100rn-9('48(B399sl6>476 


71 -11  AM  8  5 

;',  1?'68-NAM  bEPObi992 


«• 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

•'   •- 


